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POEMS. 


BY 


L 
FRANCES    ANNE     BUTLER. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
JOHN    PENINGTON, 

169  CHESTNUT  STREET. 
1844. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1844, 
BY  JOHN  PENINGTON, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Eastern  District 
of  Pennsylvania. 


C.  Sherman,  Printer. 


TO 
KATHARINE    SEDGWICK, 

THIS  LITTLE  VOLUME 

is 

MOST  RESPECTFULLY,  GRATEFULLY,  AND  AFFECTIONATELY 
INSCRIBED. 


LINES  WRITTEN  AT  NIGHT, 

August  9th,  1825. 

OH,  thou  surpassing  beauty  !  that  dost  live 
Shrined  in  yon  silent  stream  of  glorious  light ! 
Spirit  of  harmony  !  that  through  the  vast 
And  cloud-embroidered  canopy  art  spreading 
Thy  wings,    that   o'er  our   shadowy  earth    hang 

brooding, 

Like  a  pale  silver  haze,  betwixt  the  moon 
And  the  world's  darker  orb  :  beautiful,  hail ! 
Hail  to  thee!  from  her  midnight  throne  of  ether, 
Night  looks  upon  the  slumbering  universe. 
There  is  no  breeze  on  silver-crowned  tree, 
There  is  no  breath  on  dew-bespangled  flower, 
There  is  no  wind  sighs  on  the  sleepy  wave, 
There  is  no  sound  hangs  in  the  solemn  air. 
All,  all  are  silent,  all  are  dreaming,  all, 
Save  yon  eternal  eyes,  that  now  shine  forth 
Winking  the  slumberer's  destinies.     The  moon 

2 


14  LINES  WRITTEN  AT  NIGHT. 

Sails  on  the  horizon's  verge,  a  moving  glory, 
Pure,  and  unrivalled  ;  for  no  paler  orb 
Approaches,  to  invade  the  sea  of  light 
That  lives  around  her;  save  yon  little  star, 
That  sparkles  on  her  robe  of  fleecy  clouds. 
Like  a  bright  gem,  fallen  from  her  radiant  brow. 


15 


VENICE. 

NIGHT  in  her  dark  array 

Steals  o'er  the  ocean, 
And  with  departed  day 

Hushed  seems  its  motion. 
Slowly  o'er  yon  blue  coast 

Onward  she's  treading, 
'Till  its  dark  line  is  lost, 

'Neath  her  veil  spreading. 
The  bark  on  the  rippling  deep 

Hath  found  a  pillow, 
And  the  pale  moonbeams  sleep 

On  the  green  billow. 
Bound  by  her  emerald  zone 

Venice  is  lying, 
And  round  her  marble  crown 

Night  winds  are  sighing. 
From  the  high  lattice  now 

Bright  eyes  are  gleaming, 
That  seem  on  night's  dark  brow, 

Brighter  stars  beaming. 


16 


VENICE. 


Now  o'er  the  blue  lagune 

Light  barks  are  dancing, 
And  'neath  the  silver  moon 

Swift  oars  are  glancing. 
Strains  from  the  mandolin 

Steal  o'er  the  water, 
Echo  replies  between 

To  mirth  and  laughter. 
O'er  the  wave  seen  afar 

Brilliantly  shining, 
Gleams  like  a  fallen  star 

Venice  reclining. 


17 


TO  MISS  . 

TIME  beckons  on  the  hours :  the  expiring  year 

Already  feels  old  Winter's  icy  breath ; 
As  with  cold  hands,  he  scatters  on  her  bier 

The  faded  glories  of  her  autumn  wreath. 
As  fleetly  as  the  summer's  sunshine  past, 

The  winter's  snow  must  melt;   and  the  young 

Spring, 
Strewing  the  earth  with  flowers,  will  come  at  last, 

And  in  her  train  the  hour  of  parting  bring. 
But,  though  I  leave  the  harbour,  where  my  heart 

Sometime  had  found  a  peaceful  resting-place, 
Where  it  lay  calmly  moor'd  ;  though  I  depart, 

Yet,  let  not  time  my  memory  quite  efface. 
'Tis  true,  I  leave  no  void,  the  happy  home 

To  which  you  welcomed  me,  will  be  as  gay, 
As  bright,  as  cheerful,  when  I've  turned  to  roam, 

Once  more,  upon  life's  weary  onward  way. 
But  oh !  if  ever  by  the  warm  hearth's  blaze, 

Where  beaming  eyes  and  kindred  souls  are  met, 
Your  fancy  wanders  back  to  former  days, 

Let  my  remembrance  hover  round  you  yet. 
2* 


18  TO  MISS  . 

Then,  while  before  you  glides  time's  shadowy  train, 

Of  forms  long  vanished,  days  and  hours  long  gone. 
Perchance  my  name  will  be  pronounced  again, 

In  that  dear  circle  where  I  once  was  one. 
Think  of  me  then,  nor  break  kind  memory's  spell, 

By  reason's  censure  coldly  o'er  me  cast, 
Think  only,  that  I  loved  ye  passing  well ! 

And  let  my  follies  slumber  with  the  past. 


19 


THE  WIND. 

NIGHT  comes  upon  the  earth ;  and  fearfully 
Arise  the  mighty  winds,  and  sweep  along 
In  the  full  chorus  of  their  midnight  song. 
The  waste  of  heavy  clouds,  that  veil  the  sky, 
Roll  like  a  murky  scroll  before  them  driven, 
And  show  faint  glimpses  of  a  darker  heaven. 
No  ray  is  there,  of  moon,  or  pale-eyed  star, 
Darkness  is  on  the  universe ;  save  where 
The  western  sky  lies  glimmering,  faint  and  far, 
With  day's  red  embers  dimly  glowing  there. 
Hark  !  how  the  wind  comes  gathering  in  its  course, 
And  sweeping  onward,  with  resistless  force, 
Howls  through  the  silent  space  of  starless  skies, 
And  on  the  breast  of  the  swoln  ocean  dies. 
Oh,  thou  art  terrible,  thou  viewless  power ! 
That  rid'st  destroying  at  the  midnight  hour  ! 
We  hear  thy  mighty  pinion,  but  the  eye 
Knows  nothing  of  thine  awful  majesty. 
We  see  all  mute  creation  bow  before 
Thy  viewless  wings,  as  thou  careerest  o'er 


20  THE  WIND. 

This  rocking  world ;  that  in  the  boundless  sky 

Suspended,  vibrates,  as  thou  rushest  by. 

There  is  no  terror  in  the  lightning's  glare, 

That  breaks  its  red  track  through  the  trackless  air ; 

There  is  no  terror  in  the  voice  that  speaks 

From  out  the  clouds  when  the  loud  thunder  breaks 

Over  the  earth,  like  that  which  dwells  in  thee, 

Thou  unseen  tenant  of  immensity. 


21 


EASTERN  SUNSET. 

'Tis  only  the  nightingale's  warbled  strain, 

That  floats  through  the  evening  sky : 
With  his  note  of  love,  he  replies  again, 

To  the  muezzin's  holy  cry ; 
As  it  sweetly  sounds  on  the  rosy  air, 
"  Allah  il  allah !  come  to  prayer !" 
Warm  o'er  the  waters  the  red  sun  is  glowing, 
'Tis  the  last  parting  glance  of  his  splendour  and 

might, 
While  each  rippling  wave  on  the  bright  shore  is 

throwing 

Its  white  crest,  that  breaks  into  showers  of  light, 
Each  distant  mosque  and  minaret 
Is  shining  in  the  setting  sun, 
Whose  farewell  look  is  brighter  yet, 
Than  that  with  which  his  course  begun. 
On  the  dark  blue  mountains  his  smile  is  bright, 
It  glows  on  the  orange  grove's  waving  height, 
And  breaks  through  its  shade  in  long  lines  of  light. 
No  sound  on  the  earth,  and  no  sound  in  the  sky, 
Save  murmuring  fountains  that  sparkle  nigh. 


22  EASTERN  SUNSET. 

And  the  rustling  flight  of  the  evening  breeze, 
Who  steals  from  his  nest  in  the  cypress  trees, 
And  a  thousand  dewy  odours  fling, 
As  he  shakes  their  white  buds  from  his  gossamer 

wing, 

And  flutters  away  through  the  spicy  air, 
At  sound  of  a  footstep  drawing  near. 


23 


FAREWELL  TO  ITALY. 

FAREWELL  awhile,  beautiful  Italy  ! 
My  lonely  bark  is  launched  upon  the  sea 
That  clasps  thy  shore,  and  the  soft  evening  gale 
Breathes  from  thy  coast,  and  fills  my  parting  sail. 
Ere  morning  dawn,  a  colder  breeze  will  come, 
And  bear  me  onward  to  my  northern  home ; 
That  home,  where  the  pale  sun  is  not  so  bright, 
So  glorious,  at  his  noonday's  fiercest  height, 
As  when  he  throws  his  last  glance  o'er  the  sea, 
And  fires  the  heavens,  that  glow  farewell  on  thee. 
Fair  Italy !  perchance  some  future  day 
Upon  thy  coast  again  will  see  me  stray ; 
Meantime,  farewell !     I  sorrow,  as  I  leave 
Thy  lovely  shore  behind  me,  as  men  grieve 
When  bending  o'er  a  form,  around  whose  charms, 
Unconquered  yet,  death  winds  his  icy  arms : 
While  leaving  the  last  kiss  on  some  dear  cheek, 
Where  beauty  sheds  her  last  autumnal  streak, 
Life's  rosy  flower  just  mantling  into  bloom, 
Before  it  fades  for  ever  in  the  tomb. 
So  I  leave  thee,  oh !  thou  art  lovely  still ! 
Despite  the  clouds  of  infamy  and  ill 


24  FAREWELL  TO  ITALY. 

That  gather  thickly  round  thy  fading  form : 
Still  glow  thy  glorious  skies,  as  bright  and  warm, 
Still  memory  lingers  fondly  on  thy  strand, 
And  genius  hails  thee  still  her  native  land. 
Land  of  my  soul's  adoption !  o'er  the  sea, 
Thy  sunny  shore  is  fading  rapidly : 
Fainter  and  fainter,  from  my  gaze  it  dies, 
'Till  like  a  line  of  distant  light  it  lies, 
A  melting  boundary  'twixt  earth  and  sky, 
And  now  'tis  gone ; — farewell,  fair  Italy ! 


25 


THE  RED  INDIAN. 

REST,  warrior,  rest !  thine  hour  is  past,- 
Thy  longest  war-whoop,  and  thy  last, 
Still  rings  upon  the  rushing  blast, 
That  o'er  thy  grave  sweeps  drearily. 

Rest,  warrior,  rest !  thy  haughty  brow, 
Beneath  the  hand  of  death  bends  low, 
Thy  fiery  glance  is  quenched  now, 
In  the  cold  grave's  obscurity. 

Rest,  warrior,  rest !  thy  rising  sun 
Is  set  in  blood,  thy  day  is  done ; 
Like  lightning  flash  thy  race  is  run, 
And  thou  art  sleeping  peacefully. 

Rest,  warrior,  rest !  thy  foot  no  more 
The  boundless  forest  shall  explore, 
Or  trackless  cross  the  sandy  shore, 
Or  chase  the  red  deer  rapidly. 
3 


26  THE  RED  INDIAN. 

Rest,  warrior,  rest !  thy  light  canoe, 
Like  thy  choice  arrow,  swift  and  true, 
Shall  part  no  more  the  waters  blue, 
That  sparkle  round  it  brilliantly. 

Rest,  warrior,  rest !  thine  hour  is  past, 
Yon  sinking  sunbeam  is  thy  last, 
And  all  is  silent,  save  the  blast, 
That  o'er  thy  grave  sweeps  drearily. 


27 


SONG. 

YET  once  again,  but  once,  before  we  sever, 
Fill  we  one  brimming  cup, — it  is  the  last ! 

And  let  those  lips,  now  parting,  and  for  ever, 
Breathe  o'er  this  pledge,  "the  memory  of  the 
past!" 

Joy's  fleeting  sun  is  set ;  and  no  to-morrow 
Smiles  on  the  gloomy  path  we  tread  so  fast, 

Yet,  in  the  bitter  cup,  o'erfilled  with  sorrow, 

Lives  one  sweet  drop, — the  memory  of  the  past. 

But  one  more  look  from  those  dear    eyes,  now 

shining 
Thro*  their  warm  tears,  their  loveliest  and  their 

last; 

But  one  more  strain  of  hands,  in  friendship  twining, 
Now  farewell  all,  save  memory  of  the  past. 


28 


TO . 

OH  !  turn  those  eyes  away  from  me ! 

Though  sweet,  yet  fearful  are  their  rays ; 
And  though  they  beam  so  tenderly, 

I  feel,  I  tremble  'neath  their  gaze. 
Oh,  turn  those  eyes  away !  for  though 

To  meet  their  glance  I  may  not  dare, 
I  know  their  light  is  on  my  brow, 

By  the  warm  blood  that  mantles  there. 


29 


LAMENT  FOR  ISRAEL. 

WHERE  is  thy  home  in  thy  promised  land  ? 

Desolate  and  forsaken  !  . 
The  stranger's  arm  hath  seized  thy  brand, 
Thou  art  bowed  beneath  the  stranger's  hand, 

And  the  stranger  thy  birthright  hath  taken. 

Where  is  the  mark  of  thy  chosen  race? 

Infamous  and  degraded  ! 
It  hath  fallen  on  thee,  on  thy  dwelling-place, 
And  that  heaven-stamped  sign  to  a  foul  disgrace 

And  the  scoff  of  the  world,  has  faded. 

*, 

First-born  of  nations  !  upon  thy  brow, 

Resistless  and  revenging, 
The  fiery  finger  of  God  hath  now 
Written  the  sentence  of  thy  wo, 

The  innocent  blood  avenging  ! 

Lion  of  Judah  !  thy  glory  is  past, 

Vanished  and  fled  for  ever. 
Homeless  and  scattered,  thy  race  is  cast 
Like  chaff  in  the  breath  of  the  sweeping  blast, 

To  rally  or  rise  again,  never ! 
3* 


30 


A  WISH. 

LET  me  not  die  for  ever !  when  Pm  gone 

To  the  cold  earth ;  but  let  my  memory 
Live  like  the  gorgeous  western  light  that  shone 

Over  the  clouds  where  sank  day's  majesty. 
Let  me  not  be  forgotten  !  though  the  grave 

Has  clasped  its  hideous  arms  around  my  brow. 
Let  me  not  be  forgotten  !  though  the  wave 

Of  time's  dark  current  rolls  above  me  now. 
Yet  not  in  tears  remembered  be  my  name  ; 

Weep  over  those  ye  loved ;  for  me,  for  me, 
Give  me  the  wreath  of  glory,  and  let  fame 

Over  my  tomb  spread  immortality ! 


31 


A  WISH. 

LET  me  not  die  for  ever  !  when  I'm  laid 

In  the  cold  earth ;  but  let  my  memory 
Live  still  among  ye,  like  the  evening  shade, 

That  o'er  the  sinking  day  steals  placidly. 
Let  me  not  be  forgotten  !  though  the  knell 

Has  tolled  for  me  its  solemn  lullaby ; 
Let  me  not  be  forgotten  !  though  I  dwell 

For  ever  now  in  death's  obscurity. 
Yet  oh !  upon  the  emblazoned  leaf  of  fame, 

Trace  not  a  record  not  a  line  for  me, 
But  let  the  lips  I  loved  oft  breathe  my  name, 

And  in  your  hearts  enshrine  my  memory ! 


SONG. 

THE  moment  must  come,  when  the  hands  that  unite 

In  the  firm  clasp  of  friendship,  will  sever ; 
When  the  eyes  that  have  beamed  o'er  us  brightly 

to-night. 

Will  have  ceased  to  shine  o'er  us,  for  ever. 
Yet  wreathe  again  the  goblet's  brim 

With  pleasure's  roseate  crown  ! 
What  though  the  future  hour  be  dim — 
The  present  is  our  own ! 

The  moment  is  come,  and  again  we  are  parting, 
To  roam  through  the  world,  each  our  separate 

way; 

In  the  bright  eye  of  beauty  the  pearl-drop  is  starting, 
But  hope,  sunny  hope,  through  the  tear  sheds  its 

ray. 
Then  wreathe  again  the  goblet's  brim 

With  pleasure's  roseate  crown ! 
What  though  the  present  hour  be  dim — 
The  future's  yet  our  own ! 


SONG.  33 

The  moment  is  past,  and  the  bright   throng  that 

round  us 

So  lately  was  gathered,  has  fled  like  a  dream ; 
And  time  has  untwisted  the  fond  links  that  bound  us, 
Like  frost  wreaths,  that  melt  in  the  morning's  first 

beam. 
Still  wreathe  once  more  the  goblet's  brim ! 

With  pleasure's  roseate  crown ! 
What  though  all  else  beside  be  dim — 
The  past  has  been  our  own ! 


34 


TO  MRS. . 

OH  lady !  thou,  who  in  the  olden  time 
Hadst  been  the  star  of  many  a  poet's  dream  ! 
Thou,  who  unto  a  mind  of  mould  sublime, 
Weddest  the  gentle  graces  that  beseem 
Fair  woman's  best !  forgive  the  daring  line 
That  falters  forth  thy  praise  !  nor  let  thine  eye 
Glance  o'er  the  vain  attempt  too  scornfully ; 
But,  as  thou  read'st,  think  what  a  love  was  mine, 
That  made  me  venture  on  a  theme,  that  none 
Can  know  thee,  and  not  feel  a  hopeless  one. 
Thou  art  most  fair,  though  sorrow's  chastening  wing 
Hath  past,  and  left  its  shadow  on  thy  brow. 
And  solemn  thoughts  are  gently  mellowing 
The  splendour  of  thy  beauty's  summer  now. 
Thou  art  most  fair !  but  thine  is  loveliness 
That  dwells  not  only  on  the  lip,  or  eye ; 
Thy  beauty,  is  thy  pure  heart's  holiness ; 
Thy  grace,  thy  lofty  spirit's  majesty. 
While  thus  I  gaze  on  thee,  and  watch  thee  glide, 
Like  some  calm  spirit  o'er  life's  troubled  stream, 


TO  MRS.  .  35 

With  thy  twin  buds  of  beauty  by  thy  side 
Together  blossoming ;  I  almost  deem 
That  I  behold  the  loveliness  and  truth, 
That  like  fair  visions  hovered  round  my  youth, 
Long  sought — and  then  forgotten  as  a  dream 


36 


A  SPIRIT'S  VOICE. 

IT  is  the  dawn  !  the  rosy  day  awakes  ; 

From   her  bright  hair  pale  showers  of  dew  she 

shakes, 

And  through  the  heavens  her  early  pathway  takes ; 
Why  art  thou  sleeping ! 

It  is  the  noon !  the  sun  looks  laughing  down 
On  hamlet  still,  on  busy  shore,  and  town, 
On  forest  glade,  and  deep  dark  waters  lone ; 
Why  art  thou  sleeping ! 

It  is  the  sunset !  daylight's  crimson  veil 
Floats  o'er  the  mountain  tops,  while  twilight  pale, 
Calls  up  her  vaporous  shrouds  from  every  vale ; 
Why  art  thou  sleeping ! 

It  is  the  night !  o'er  the  moon's  livid  brow, 
Like  shadowy  locks,  the  clouds  their  darkness  throw, 
All  evil  spirits  wake  to  wander  now ; 
Why  art  thou  sleeping  ! 


37 


TO  THE  DEAD. 

ON  the  lone  waters'  shore 

Wander  I  yet ; 
Brooding  those  moments  o'er 

I  should  forget. 
'Till  the  broad  foaming  surge 

Warns  me  to  fly, 
While  despair's  whispers  urge 

To  stay,  and  die. 
When  the  night's  solemn  watch 

Falls  on  the  seas, 
'Tis  thy  voice  that  I  catch 

In  the  low  breeze ; 
When  the  moon  sheds  her  light 

On  things  below, 
Beams  not  her  ray  so  bright, 

Like  thy  young  brow  ? 
Spirit  immortal !  say, 

When  wilt  thou  come, 
To  marshal  me  the  way 

To  my  long  home  ? 
4 


SONG. 

I  SING  the  yellow  leaf, 
That  rustling  strews 
The  wintry  path,  where  grief 

Delights  to  muse, 
Spring's  early  violet,  that  sweetly  opes 

Its  fragrant  leaves  to  the  young  mornings  kiss, 
Type  of  our  youth's  fond  dreams,  and  cherished 

hope, 
Will  soon  be  this  : 

A  sere  and  yellow  leaf, 
That  rustling  strews 
The  wintry  path,  where  grief 

Delights  to  muse. 
The  summer's  rose,  in  whose  rich  hues  we  read 

Pleasures  gay  bloom,  and  love's  enchanting  bliss, 
And  glory's  laurel,  waving  o'er  the  dead, 
Will  soon  be  this  : 

A  sere  and  yellow  leaf, 
That  rustling  strews 
The  wintry  path,  where  grief 
Delights  to  muse. 


39 


TO  THOMAS  MOORE,  ESQ. 

HERE'S  a  health  to  thee,  Bard  of  Erin ! 

To  the  goblet's  brim  we  will  fill ; 
For  all  that  to  life  is  endearing, 

Thy  strains  have  made  dearer  still ! 

Wherever  fond  woman's  eyes  eclipse 
The  midnight  moon's  soft  ray  ; 

Whenever  around  dear  woman's  lips, 
The  smiles  of  affection  play : 

We  will  drink  to  thee,  Bard  of  Erin  ! 

To  the  goblet's  brim  we  will  fill, 
For  all  that  to  life  is  endearing, 

Thy  strains  have  made  dearer  still ! 

Wherever  the  warrior's  sword  is  bound 

With  the  laurel  of  victory, 
Wherever  the  patriot's  brow  is  crowned 

With  the  halo  of  liberty : 


40  TO  THOMAS  MOORE,  ESQ. 

We  will  drink  to  thee,  Bard  of  Erin  ! 

To  the  goblet's  brim  we  will  fill ; 
For  all  that  to  life  is  endearing 

Thy  strains  have  made  dearer  still ! 

Wherever  the  voice  of  mirth  hath  rung, 
On  the  listening  ear  of  night, 

Wherever  the  soul  of  wit  hath  flung 
Its  flashes  of  vivid  light : 

We  will  drink  to  thee,  Bard  of  Erin ! 

To  the  goblet's  brim  we  will  fill ; 
For  all  that  to  life  is  endearing, 

In  thy  strains  is  dearer  still ! 


41 


A  WISH. 

OH  !  that  I  were  a  fairy  sprite,  to  wander 
In  forest  paths,  o'erarched  with  oak  and  beech ; 
Where  the  sun's  yellow  light,  in  slanting  rays, 
Sleeps  on  the  dewy  moss :  what  time  the  breath 
Of  early  morn  stirs  the  white  hawthorn  boughs, 
And  fills  the  air  with  showers  of  snowy  blossoms. 
Or  lie  at  sunset  'mid  the  purple  heather, 
Listening  the  silver  music  that  rings  out 
From  the  pale  mountain  bells,  swayed  by  the  wind. 
Or  sit  in  rocky  clefts  above  the  sea, 
While  one  by  one  the  evening  stars  shine  forth 
Among  the  gathering  clouds,  that  strew  the  heavens 
Like   floating   purple  wreaths  of  mournful   night- 
shade ! 

4* 


42 


THE  MINSTREL'S  GRAVE. 

OH  let  it  be  where  the  waters  are  meeting, 

In  one  crystal  sheet,  like  the  summer's  sky  bright ! 
Oh  let  it  be  where  the  sun,  when  retreating, 

May  throw  the  last  glance  of  his  vanishing  light, 
Lay  me  there !  lay  me  there  I  and  upon  my  lone 
pillow, 

Let  the  emerald  moss  in  soft  starry  wreaths  swell; 
Be  my  dirge  the  faint  sob  of  the  murmuring  billow, 

And  the  burthen  it  sings  to  me,  nought  but  "  fare- 
well!" 

Oh  let  it  be  where  soft  slumber  enticing, 

The  cypress  and  myrtle  have  mingled  their  shade; 
Oh  let  it  be  where  the  moon  at  her  rising, 

May  throw  the  first  night-glance  that  silvers  the 

glade. 
Lay  me  there !  lay  me  there !  and  upon  the  green 

willow 
Hang  the  harp  that  has  cheer'd  the  lone  minstrel 

so  well, 
That  the  soft  breath  of  heaven,  as  it  sighs  o'er  my 

pillow, 

From  its  strings,  now  forsaken,  may  sound  one 
farewell. 


TO 


WHEN  we  first  met,  dark  wintry  skies  were  gloom- 
ing, 

And  the  wild  winds  sang  requiem  to  the  year ; 
But  thou,  in  all  thy  beauty's  pride  wert  blooming, 

And  my  young  heart  knew  hope  without  a  fear. 

When  we  last  parted,  summer  suns  were  smiling, 
And  the  bright  earth  her  flowery  vesture  wore, 

But  thou  hadst  lost  the  power  of  beguiling, 

For  my  wrecked,  wearied  heart,  could  hope  no 
more. 


44 


ON  A  FORGET-ME-NOT, 

Brought  from  Switzerland. 

FLOWER  of  the  mountain  !  by  the  wanderer's  hand 
Robbed  of  thy  beauty's  short-lived  sunny  day ; 
Didst  thou  but  blow  to  gem  the  stranger's  way, 
And  bloom,  to  wither  in  the  stranger's  land ! 
Hueless  and  scentless  as  thou  art, 

How  much  that  stirs  the  memory, 
How  much,  much  more,  that  thrills  the  heart, 
Thou  faded  thing,  yet  lives  in  thee ! 

Where  is  thy  beauty  ?  in  the  grassy  blade, 
There  lives  more  fragrance,  and  more  freshness 

now; 

Yet  oh !  not  all  the  flowers  that  bloom  and  fade, 
Are  half  so  dear  to  memory's  eye  as  thou. 
The  dew  that  on  the  mountain  lies, 
The  breeze  that  o'er  the  mountain  sighs, 

Thy  parent  stem  will  nurse  and  nourish ; 
But  thou — not  e'en  those  sunny  eyes 
As  bright,  as  blue,  as  thine  own  skies, 

Thou  faded  thing !  can  make  thee  flourish. 


45 


SONNET. 

'TWAS  but  a  dream  !  and  oh  !  what  are  they  all, 
All  the  fond  visions  hope's  bright  finger  traces, 
All  the  fond  visions  time's  dark  wing  effaces, 

But  very  dreams !  but  morning  buds,  that  fall 
Withered  and  blighted,  long  before  the  night : 
Strewing  the  paths  they  should  have  made  more 
bright, 

With  mournful  wreaths,  whose  light  hath  past  away, 
That  can  return  to  life  and  beauty  never, 

And  yet,  of  whom  it  was  but  yesterday, 

We  deemed  they'd  bloom  as  fresh  and  fair  for 
ever. 

Oh  then,  when  hopes,  that  to  thy  heart  are  dearest, 
Over  the  future  shed  their  sunniest  beam, 

When   round   thy  path   their   bright  wings   hover 

nearest, 
Trust  not  too  fondly ! — for  'tis  but  a  dream  ! 


SONNET. 

OH  weary,  weary  world  !  how  full  thou  art 

Of  sin,  of  sorrow,  and  all  evil  things  ! 
In  thy  fierce  turmoil,  where  shall  the  sad  heart.  / 
Released  from  pain,  fold  its  unrested  wings  ?' 
Peace  hath  no  dwelling  here,  but  evermore 
Loud  discord,  strife,  and  envy,  fill  the  earth 
With  fearful  riot,  whilst  unhallowed  mirth 
Shrieks  frantic  laughter  forth,  leading  along, 
Whirling  in  dizzy  trance,  the  eager  throng, 
Who  bear  aloft  the  overflowing  cup, 
With  tears,  forbidden  joys,  and  blood  filled  up, 
Quaffing  long  draughts  of  death ;  in  lawless  might, 
Drunk  with  soft  harmonies,  and  dazzling  light, 
So  rush  they  down  to  the  eternal  night. 


47 


ON  A  MUSICAL  BOX. 

POOR  little  sprite !  in  that  dark,  narrow  cell 

Caged  by  the  law  of  man's  resistless  might! 
With  thy  sweet,  liquid  notes,  by  some  strong  spell, 

Compelled  to  minister  to  his  delight ! 
Whence,  what  art  thou  ?  art  thou  a  fairy  wight 

Caught  sleeping  in  some  lily's  snowy  bell, 
Where  thou  hadst  crept,  to  rock  in  the  moonlight, 

And  drink  the  starry  dew-drops  as  they  fell? 
Say,  dost   thou   think,  sometimes  when   thou   art 
singing, 

Of  thy  wild  haunt  upon  the  mountain's  brow, 
Where  thou  wert  wont  to  list  the  heath-bells  ringing, 

And  sail  upon  the  sunset's  amber  glow  1 
When  thou  art  weary  of  thy  oft-told  theme, 

Say,  dost  thou  think  of  the  clear  pebbly  stream, 
Upon  whose  mossy  brink  thy  fellows  play  1 
Dancing  in  circles  by  the  moon's  soft  beam, 
Hiding  in  blossoms  from  the  sun's  fierce  gleam, 

Whilst  thou,  in  darkness,  sing'st  thy  life  away. 


48  ON  A  MUSICAL  BOX. 

And  canst  thou  feel  when  the  spring-time  returns, 

Filling  the  earth  with  fragrance  and  with  glee ; 
When  in  the  wide  creation  nothing  mourns, 

Of  all  that  lives,  save  that  which  is  not  free? 
Oh !  if  thou  couldst,  and  we  could  hear  thy  pray'r, 

How  would  thy  little  voice  beseeching  cry, 
For  one  short  draught  of  the  sweet  morning  air, 

For  one  short  glimpse  of  the  clear  azure  sky ! 
Perchance  thou  sing'st  in  hopes  thou  shalt  be  free, 

Sweetly  and  patiently  thy  task  fulfilling ; 
While  thy  sad  thoughts  are  wandering  with  the  bee, 

To  evVy  bud  with  honey  dew  distilling. 
That  hope  is  vain :  for  even  couldst  thou  wing 

Thy  homeward  flight  back  to  the  greenwood  gay, 
Thou'dst  be  a  shunn'd  and  a  forsaken  thing, 

'Mongst  the  companions  of  thy  happier  day. 
For  fairy  sprites,  like  many  other  creatures, 

Bear  fleeting  memories,  that  come  and  go ; 
Nor  can  they  oft  recall  familiar  features, 

By  absence  touched,  or  clouded  o'er  with  wo. 
Then  rest  content  with  sorrow :  for  there  be 
Many  that  must  that  lesson  learn  with  thee ; 
And  still  thy  wild  notes  warble  cheerfully, 
Till,  when  thy  tiny  voice  begins  to  fail, 
For  thy  lost  bliss  sing  but  one  parting  wail, 
Poor  little  sprite !  and  then  sleep  peacefully ! 


49 


TO  THE  PICTURE  OF  A  LADY. 

LADY,  sweet  lady,  I  behold  thee  yet, 

With  thy  pale  brow,  brown  eyes,  and  solemn  air, 

And  billowy  tresses  of  thy  golden  hair, 

Which  once  to  see,  is  never  to  forget ! 

But  for  short  space  I  gazed,  with  soul  intent 

Upon  thee ;  and  the  limner's  art  divine, 

Meantime,  poured  all  thy  spirit  into  mine. 

But  once  I  gazed,  then  on  my  way  I  went : 

And  thou  art  still  before  me.     Like  a  dream 

Of  what  our  soul  has  loved,  and  lost  for  ever, 

Thy  vision  dwells  with  me,  and  though  I  never 

May  be  so  blest  as  to  behold  thee  more, 

That  one  short  look  has  stamped  thee  in  my  heart, 

Of  my  intensest  life  a  living  part, 

Which  time,  and  death,  shall  never  triumph  o'er. 


50 


FRAGMENT. 

WALKING  by  moonlight  on  the  golden  margin 

That  binds  the  silver  sea,  I  fell  to  thinking 

Of  all  the  wild  imaginings  that  man 

Hath  peopled  heaven,  and  earth,  and  ocean  with ; 

Making  fair  nature's  solitary  haunts 

Alive  with  beings,  beautiful  and  fearful. 

And  as  the  chain  of  thought  grew  link  by  link, 

It   seemed,  as   tho?  the   midnight   heavens  waxed 

brighter, 

The  stars  gazed  fix'dly  with  their  golden  eyes, 
And  a  strange  light  played  o'er  each  sleeping  billow, 
That  laid  its  head  upon  the  sandy  beach. 
Anon  there  came  along  the  rocky  shore 
A  far-off  sound  of  sweetest  minstrelsy. 
From  no  one  point  of  heaven,  or  earth,  it  came ; 
But  under,  over,  and  about  it  breathed ; 
Filling  my  soul  with  thrilling,  fearful,  pleasure. 
It  swelled,  as  though  borne  on  the  floating  wings 
Of  the  midsummer  breeze ;  it  died  away 
Towards  heaven,  as  though  it  sank  into  the  clouds, 
That  one  by  one  melted  like  flakes  of  snow 


FRAGMENT.  51 

In  the  moonbeams.     Then  came  a  rushing  sound, 

Like  countless  wings  of  bees,  or  butterflies ; 

And  suddenly,  as  far  as  eye  might  view, 

The  coast  was  peopled  with  a  world  of  elves, 

Who  in  fantastic  ringlets  danced  around, 

With  antic  gestures,  and  wild  beckoning  motion, 

Aimed  at  the  moon.  White  was  their  snowy  vesture, 

And  shining  as  the  Alps,  when  that  the  sun 

Gems  their   pale  robes  with  diamonds.     On  their 

heads 

Were  wreaths  of  crimson  and  of  yellow  fox-glove. 
They  were  all  fair,  and  light  as  dreams ;  anon 
The  dance  broke  off;  and  sailing  through  the  air, 
Some  one  way,  and  some  other,  they  did  each 
Alight  upon  some  waving  branch,  or  flower, 
That  garlanded  the  rocks  upon  the  shore. 
One,  chiefly,  did  I  mark ;  one  tiny  sprite, 
Who  crept  into  an  orange  flower-bell, 
And  there  lay  nestling,  whilst  his  eager  lips 
Drank  from  its  virgin  chalice  the  night  dew, 
That  glistened,  like  a  pearl,  in  its  white  bosom. 


SONNET. 

COVER  me  with  your  everlasting  arms, 
Ye  guardian  giants  of  this  solitude ! 
From  the  ill-sight  of  men,  and  from  the  rude, 

Tumultuous  din  of  yon  wild  world's  alarms ! 

Oh,  knit  your  mighty  limbs  around,  above, 
And  close  me  in  for  ever !  let  me  dwell 
With  the  wood  spirits,  in  the  darkest  cell 

That  ever  with  your  verdant  locks  ye  wove. 
The  air  is  full  of  countless  voices,  joined 
In  one  eternal  hymn ;  the  whispering  wind, 
The  shuddering  leaves,  the  hidden  water  springs, 
The  work-song  of  the  bees,  whose  honey'd  wings 
Hang  in  the  golden  tresses  of  the  lime, 
Or  buried  lie  in  purple  beds  of  thyme. 


53 


WRITTEN  ON  CRAMOND  BEACH. 

FAREWELL,  old  playmate !  on  thy  sandy  shore 
My  lingering  feet  will  leave  their  print  no  more ; 
To  thy  loved  side  I  never  may  return. 
I  pray  thee,  old  companion,  make  due  mourn 
For  the  wild  spirit  who  so  oft  has  stood 
Gazing  in  love  and  wonder  on  thy  flood. 
The  form  is  now  departing  far  away, 
That  half  in  anger,  oft,  and  half  in  play, 
Thou  hast  pursued  with  thy  white  showers  of  foam. 
Thy  waters  daily  will  besiege  the  home 
I  loved  among  the  rocks ;  but  there  will  be 
No  laughing  cry,  to  hail  thy  victory, 
Such  as  was  wont  to  greet  thee,  when  I  fled, 
With  hurried  footsteps,  and  averted  head, 
Like  fallen  monarch,  from  my  venturous  stand, 
Chased  by  thy  billows  far  along  the  sand. 
And  when  at  eventide  thy  warm  waves  drink 
The  amber  clouds,  that  in  their  bosom  sink ; 
When  sober  twilight  over  thee  has  spread 
Her  purple  pall,  when  the  glad  day  is  dead, 
My  voice  no  more  will  mingle  with  the  dirge 
That  rose  in  mighty  moaning  from  thy  surge, 
Filling  with  awful  harmony  the  air, 
When  thy  vast  soul  and  mine  were  joined  in  prayer. 
5* 


54 


SONNET. 

AWAY,  away  !  bear  me  away,  away, 

Into  the  boundless  void,  thou  mighty  wind  ! 

That  rushest  on  thy  midnight  way,  . 

And  leav'st  this  weary  world,  far,  far  behind  ! 

Away,  away  !  bear  me  away,  away, 

To  the  wide  strandless  deep, 

Ye  headlong  waters !  whose  mad  eddies  leap 

From  the  pollution  of  your  bed  of  clay, 

Away,  away  !  bear  me  away,  away, 

Into  the  fountains  of  eternal  light, 

Ye  rosy  clouds  !  that  to  my  longing  sight, 

Seem  melting  in  the  sun's  devouring  ray  ! 

Away !  away  !  oh,  for  some  mighty  blast, 

To  sweep  this  loathsome  life  into  the  past ! 


55 


FRAGMENT. 

IT  was  the  harvest  time :  the  broad,  bright  moon 

Was  at  her  full,  and  shone  upon  the  fields 

Where  we  had  toil'd  the  livelong  day,  to  pile 

In  golden  sheaves  the  earth's  abundant  treasure. 

The  harvest  task  had  given  place  to  song 

And  merry  dance ;  and  these  in  turn  were  chas'd 

By  legends  strange,  and  wild,  unearthly  tales, 

Of  elves,  and  gnomes,  and  fairy  sprites,  that  haunt 

The  woods  and  caves;  where  they  do  sleep  all  day, 

And  then  come  forth  i'  the  witching  hour  of  night, 

To  dance  by  moonlight  on  the  green  thick  sward. 

The  speaker  was  an  aged  villager, 

In  whom  his  oft-told  tale  awoke  no  fears, 

Such  as  he  fill'd  his  gaping  listeners  with. 

Nor  ever  was  there  break  in  his  discourse ; 

Save  when  with  gray  eyes  lifted  to  the  moon, 

He  conjur'd  from  the  past  strange  instances 

Of  kidnapp'd  infants,  from  their  cradles  snatch'd, 

And  changed  for  elvish  sprites ;  of  blights,  and  blains, 

Sent  on  the  cattle  by  the  vengeful  fairies : 

Of  blasted  crops,  maim'd  limbs,  and  unsound  minds, 

All  plagues  inflicted  by  these  anger'd  sprites. 


56  FRAGMENT. 

Then  would  he  pause,  and  wash  his  story  down 
With  long-drawn  draughts  of  amber  ale  ;  while  all 
The  rest  came  crowding  under  the  wide  oak  tree ; 
Piling  the  corn  sheaves  closer  round  the  ring, 
Whispering  and  shaking,  laughing  too,  with  fear ; 
And  ever,  if  an  acorn  bobb'd  from  the  boughs, 
Or  grasshopper  from  out  the  stubble  chirrupp'd, 
Blessing  themselves  from  Robin  Goodfellow  ! 


57 


SONNET. 

OFT  let  me  wander  hand  in  hand  with  Thought, 
In  woodland  paths,  and  lone  sequester'd  shades, 
What  time  the  sunny  banks  and  mossy  glades, 
With  dewy  wreaths  of  early  violets  wrought, 
Into  the  air  their  fragrant  incense  fling, 
To  greet  the  triumph  of  the  youthful  Spring. 
Lo,  where  she  comes  !  scap'd  from  the  icy  lair 
Of  hoary  Winter ;  wanton,  free,  and  fair ! 
Now  smile  the  heav'ns  again  upon  the  earth, 
Bright  hill,  and  bosky  dell,  resound  with  mirth, 
And  voices,  full  of  laughter  and  wild  glee, 
Shout  thro'  the  air  pregnant  with  harmony ; 
And  wake  poor  sobbing  Echo,  who  replies 
With  sleepy  voice,  that  softly,  slowly,  dies. 


58 


SONNET. 

I 

I  WOULD  I  knew  the  lady  of  thy  heart  ? 
She  whom  thou  lov'st  perchance,  as  I  love  thee. 
She  unto  whom  thy  thoughts  and  wishes  flee; 
Those  thoughts,  in  which,  alas  !  I  bear  no  part. 
Oh,  I  have  sat  and  sighed,  thinking  how  fair, 
How  passing  beautiful,  thy  love  must  be ; 
Of  mind  how  high,  of  modesty  how  rare; 
And  then  I've  wept,  I've  wept  in  agony ! 
Oh,  that  I  might  but  once  behold  those  eyes, 
That  to  thy  enamour'd  gaze  alone  seem  fair ; 
Once  hear  that  voice,  whose  music  still  replies 
To  the  fond  vows  thy  passionate  accents  swear : 
Oh,  that  I  might  but  know  the  truth  and  die, 
Nor  live  in  this  long  dream  of  misery ! 


59 


A  PROMISE. 

BY  the  pure  spring,  whose  haunted  waters  flow 

Thro'  thy  sequester'd  dell  unto  the  sea, 

At  sunny  noon,  I  will  appear  to  thee : 

Not  troubling  the  still  fount  with  drops  of  wo, 

As  when  I  last  took  leave  of  it,  and  thee, 

But  gazing  up  at  thee  with  tranquil  brow, 

And  eyes  full  of  life's  early  happiness, 

Of  strength,  of  hope,  of  joy,  and  tenderness. 

Beneath  the  shadowy  tree,  where  thou  and  I 

Were  wont  to  sit,  studying  the  harmony 

Of  gentle  Shakspeare,  and  of  Milton  high, 

At  sunny  noon  I  will  be  heard  by  thee ; 

Not  sobbing  forth  each  oft-repeated  sound, 

As  when  I  last  faulter'd  them  o'er  to  thee, 

But  uttering  them  in  the  air  around, 

With  youth's  clear,  laughing  voice  of  melody. 

On  the  wild  shore  of  the  eternal  deep, 

Where  we  have  stray'd  so  oft,  and  stood  so  long 

Watching  the  mighty  water's  conquering  sweep, 

And  listening  to  their  loud  triumphant  song, 

At  sunny  noon,  dearest!  I'll  be  with  thee  : 


60  A   PROMISE. 

Not  as  when  last  I  lingered  on  the  strand, 
Tracing  our  names  on  the  inconstant  sand  ; 
But  in  each  bright  thing  that  around  shall  be : 
My  voice  shall  call  thee  from  the  ocean's  breast, 
Thou'lt  see  my  hair  in  its  bright,  showery  crest, 
In  its  dark,  rocky  depths,  thou'lt  see  my  eyes, 
My  form,  shall  be  the  light  cloud  in  the  skies, 
My  spirit  shall  be  with  thee,  warm  and  bright, 
And  flood  thee  o'er  with  love,  and  life,  and  light. 


61 


A  PROMISE. 

IN  the  dark,  lonely  night, 
When  sleep  and  silence  keep  their  watch  o'er  men ; 

False  love  !  in  thy  despite, 
I  will  be  with  thee  then. 
When  in  the  world  of  dreams  thy  spirit  strays, 
Seeking,  in  vain,  the  peace  it  finds  not  here, 
Thou  shalt  be  led  back  to  thine  early  days 
Of  life  and  love,  and  I  will  meet  thee  there. 
I'll  come  to  thee,  with  the  bright,  sunny  brow, 
That  was  hope's  throne  before  I  met  with  thee ; 
And  then  I'll  show  thee  how  'tis  furrowed  now, 
By  the  untimely  age  of  misery. 
I'll  speak  to  thee,  in  the  fond,  joyous  tone, 
That  wooed  thee  still  with  love's  impassioned  spell ; 
And  then  I'll  teach  thee  how  I've  learnt  to  moan, 
Since  last  upon  thine  ear  its  accents  fell. 
I'll  come  to  thee  in  all  youth's  brightest  power, 
As  on  the  day  thy  faith  to  mine  was  plighted, 
And  then  I'll  tell  thee  weary  hour  by  hour, 
How  that  spring's  early  promise  has  been  blighted. 
6 


62  A  PROMISE. 

I'll  tell  thee  of  the  long,  long,  dreary  years, 
That  have  passed  o'er  me  hopeless,  objectless ; 
My  loathsome  days,  my  nights  of  burning  tears, 
My  wild  despair,  my  utter  loneliness, 
My  heart-sick  dreams  upon  my  feverish  bed, 
My  fearful  longing  to  be  with  the  dead ; 

In  the  dark  lonely  night, 
When  sleep  and  silence  keep  their  watch  o'er  men ; 

False  love  !  in  thy  despite, 
We  two  shall  meet  again ! 


63 


SONNET. 

SPIRIT  of  all  sweet  sounds !  who  in  mid  air 

Sittest  enthroned,  vouchsafe  to  hear  my  prayer! 

Let  all  those  instruments  of  music  sweet, 

That  in  great  nature's  hymn  bear  burthen  meet, 

Sing  round  this  mossy  pillow,  where  my  head 

From  the  bright  noontide  sky  is  sheltered. 

Thou  southern  wind  !  wave,  wave  thy  od'rous  wings, 

O'er  your  smooth  channels  gush,  ye  crystal  springs ! 

Ye  laughing  elves  !  that  thro'  the  rustling  corn 

Run  chattering  ;  thou  tawny-coated  bee, 

Who  at  thy  honey-work  sing'st  drowsily ; 

And  ye,  oh  ye  !  who  greet  the  dewy  morn, 

And  fragrant  eventide,  with  melody, 

Ye  wild  wood  minstrels,  sing  my  lullaby ! 


64 


TO 


I  WOULD  I  might  be  with  thee,  when  the  year 

Begins  to  wane,  and  that  thou  walk'st  alone 

Upon  the  rocky  strand,  whilst  loud  and  clear, 

The  autumn  wind  sings,  from  his  cloudy  throne, 

Wild  requiems  for  the  summer  that  is  gone. 

Or  when,  in  sad  and  contemplative  mood, 

Thy  feet  explore  the  leafy-pa ven  wood : 

I  would  my  soul  might  reason  then  with  thine, 

Upon  those  themes  most  solemn  and  most  strange, 

Which  ev'ry  falling  leaf  and  fading  flower, 

Whisper  unto  us  with  a  voice  divine ; 

Filling  the  brief  space  of  one  mortal  hour, 

With  fearful  thoughts  of  death,  decay,  and  change, 

And  the  high  mystery  of  that  after  birth, 

That  comes  to  us,  as  well  as  to  the  earth. 


65 


SONNET. 

BY  jasper  founts,  whose  falling  waters  make 

Eternal  music  to  the  silent  hours; 

Or  'neath  the  gloom  of  solemn  cypress  bowers, 

Thro'  whose  dark  screen  no  prying  sunbeams  break  : 

How  oft  I  dream  I  see  thee  wandering, 

With  thy  majestic  mien,  and  thoughtful  eyes, 

And  lips,  whereon  all  holy  counsel  lies, 

And  shining  tresses  of  soft  rippling  gold, 

Like  to  some  shape,  beheld  in  days  of  old 

By  seer  or  prophet,  when,  as  poets  sing, 

The  gods  had  not  forsaken  yet  the  earth, 

But  loved  to  haunt  each  shady  dell  and  grove ; 

When  ev'ry  breeze  was  the  soft  breath  of  love, 

When  the  blue  air  rang  with  sweet  sounds  of  mirth, 

And  this  dark  world  seemed  fair  as  at  its  birth. 


THE  VISION  OF  LIFE. 

DEATH  and  I, 

On  a  hill  so  high, 
Stood  side  by  side  : 

And  we  saw  below, 

Running  to  and  fro, 
All  things  that  be  in  the  world  so  wide. 

Ten  thousand  cries 

From  the  gulf  did  rise, 
With  a  wild  discordant  sound  ; 

Laughter  and  wailing, 

Prayer  and  railing, 
As  the  ball  spun  round  and  round. 

And  over  all 

Hung  a  floating  pall 
Of  dark  and  gory  veils : 

'Tis  the  blood  of  years, 

And  the  sighs  and  tears, 
Which  this  noisome  marsh  exhales. 


THE  VISION  OF  LTFK-  67 

All  this  did  seem 

Like  a  fearful  dream, 
Till  Death  cried  with  a  joyful  cry : 

11  Look  down  !  look  down  ! 

It  is  all  mine  own, 
Here  comes  life's  pageant  by  !" 

Like  to  a  masque  in  ancient  revelries, 
With  mingling  sound  of  thousand  harmonies, 
Soft  lute  and  viol,  trumpet-blast  and  gong, 
They  came  along,  and  still  they  came  along ! 
Thousands,  and  tens  of  thousands,  all  that  e'er 
Peopled  the  earth,  or  plough'd  th'  unfathomed  deep, 
All  that  now  breathe  the  universal  air, 
And  all  that  in  the  womb  of  Time  yet  sleep. 


Before  this  mighty  host  a  woman  came, 
With  hurried  feet,  and  oft  averted  head  ; 

With  accursed  light 

Her  eyes  were  bright, 

And  with  inviting  hand  them  on  she  beckoned. 
Her  followed  close,  with  wild  acclaim, 
Her  servants  three :  Lust,  with  his  eye  of  fire, 
And  burning  lips,  that  tremble  with  desire, 
Pale  sunken  cheek  : — and  as  he  stagger'd  by, 
The  trumpet-blast  was  hush'd,  and  there  arose 
A  melting  strain  of  such  soft  melody, 
As  breath'd  into  the  soul  love's  ecstasies  and  woes. 


68  THE  VISION  OF  LIFE. 

Loudly  again  the  trumpet  smote  the  air, 
The  double  drum  did  roll,  and  to  the  sky 
Bay'd  War's  blood-hounds,  the  deep  artillery ; 
And  Glory, 
With  feet  all  gory, 
And  dazzling  eyes,  rush'd  by, 
Waving  a  flashing  sword  and  laurel  wreath, 
The  pang,  and  the  inheritance  of  death. 

He  pass'd  like  lightning — then  ceased  every  sound 
Of  war  triumphant,  and  of  love's  sweet  song, 
And  all  was  silent. — Creeping  slow  along, 
With  eager  eyes,  that  wandered  round  and  round, 
Wild,  haggard  mien,  and  meagre,  wasted  frame, 
Bow'd  to  the  earth,  pale,  starving  Av'rice  came: 
Clutching  with  palsied  hands  his  golden  god, 
And  tottering  in  the  path  the  others  trod. 

These,  one  by  one, 

Came,  and  were  gone : 
And  after  them  followed  the  ceaseless  stream 
Of  worshippers,  who,  with  mad  shout  and  scream, 
Unhallow'd  toil,  and  more  unhallow'd  mirth, 
Follow  their  mistress,  Pleasure,  through  the  earth. 
Death's  eyeless  sockets  glar'd  upon  them  all, 
And  many  in  the  train  were  seen  to  fall, 
Livid  and  cold,  beneath  his  empty  gaze  ; 
But  not  for  this  was  stay'd  the  mighty  throng, 
Nor  ceased  the  warlike  clang,  or  wanton  lays, 
But  still  they  rush'd — along — along — along  ! 


69 


SONNET. 

To  a  Lady  who  wrote  under  my  likeness  as  Juliet,  "  Lieti  giorni 
e  felice." 

WHENCE  should  they  come,  lady !  those  happy  days 

That  thy  fair  hand  and  gentle  heart  invoke 

Upon  my  head  '(  Alas !  such  do  not  rise 

On  any,  of  the  many,  who  with  sighs 

Bear  thro'  this  journey-land  of  wo,  life's  yoke. 

The  light  of  such  lives  not  in  thine  own  lays ; 

Such  were  not  hers,  that  girl,  so  fond,  so  fair, 

Beneath  whose  image  thou  hast  traced  thy  pray'r. 

Evil,  and  few,  upon  this  darksome  earth, 

Must  be  the  days  of  all  of  mortal  birth  ; 

Then  why  not  mine  ?    Sweet  lady !  wish  again, 

Not  more  of  joy  to  me,  but  less  of  pain; 

Calm  slumber,  when  life's  troubled  hours  are  past, 

And  with  thy  friendship  cheer  them  while  they  last. 


70 


TO  MY  GUARDIAN  ANGEL. 

MERCIFUL  spirit !  who  thy  bright  throne  above 
Hast  left,  to  wander  thro'  this  dismal  earth 
With  me,  poor  child  of  sin  ! — Angel  of  love  ! 
Whose  guardian  wings  hung  o'er  me  from  my  birth, 
And  who  still  walk'st  unwearied  by  my  side, 
How  oft,  oh  thou  compassionate !  must  thou  mourn 
Over  the  wayward  deeds,  the  thoughts  of  pride, 
That  thy  pure  eyes  behold.     Yet  not  aside 
From  thy  sad  task  dost  thou  in  anger  turn; 
But  patiently,  thou  hast  but  gaz'd  and  sighed, 
And  follow'd  still,  striving  with  the  divine 
Powers  of  thy  soul  for  mastery  over  mine ; 
And  tho'  all  line  of  human  hope  be  past, 
Still  fondly  watching,  hoping,  to  the  last. 


71 


SONNET. 

Suggested  by  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence  observing  that  we  never 
dream  of  ourselves  younger  than  we  are. 

NOT  in  our  dreams,  not  even  in  our  dreams, 

May  we  return  to  that  sweet  land  of  youth, 

That  home  of  hope,  of  innocence,  and  truth, 

Which  as  we  farther  roam  but  fairer  seems. 

In  that  dim  shadowy  world,  where  the  soul  strays 

When  she  has  laid  her  mortal  charge  to  rest, 

We  oft  behold  far  future  hours  and  days, 

But  ne'er  live  o'er  the  past,  the  happiest. 

How  oft  will  fancy's  wild  imaginings 

Bear  us  in  sleep  to  times  and  worlds  unseen, 

But  ah  !  not  e'en  unfetter'd  fancy's  wings 

Can  lead  us  back  to  aught  that  we  have  been, 

Or  waft  us  to  that  smiling,  sunny  shore, 

Which  e'en  in  slumber  we  may  tread  no  more. 


SONNET. 

WHENE'ER  I  recollect  the  happy  time 

When  you  and  I  held  converse  dear  together, 

There  come  a  thousand  thoughts  of  sunny  weather, 

Of  early  blossoms,  and  the  fresh  year's  prime ; 

Your  memory  lives  for  ever  in  my  mind 

With  all  the  fragrant  beauties  of  the  spring, 

With  od'rous  lime  and  silver  hawthorn  twin'd, 

And  many  a  noonday  woodland  wandering. 

There's  not  a  thought  of  you,  but  brings  along 

Some  sunny  dream  of  river,  field  and  sky ; 

'Tis  wafted  on  the  blackbird's  sunset  song, 

Or  some  wild  snatch  of  ancient  melody. 

And  as  I  date  it  still,  our  love  arose 

'Twixt  the  last  violet  and  the  earliest  rose. 


73 


TO  THE  SPRING. 

HAIL  to  thee,  spirit  of  hope  !  whom  men  call  Spring ; 
Youngest  and  fairest  of  the  four,  who  guide 
Our  mortal  year  along  Time's  rapid  tide. 
Spirit  of  life  !  the  old  decrepid  earth 
Has  heard  thy  voice,  and  at  a  wondrous  birth, 
Forth  springing  from  her  dark,  mysterious  womb, 
A  thousand  germs  of  light  and  beauty  come. 
Thy  breath  is  on  the  waters,  and  they  leap 
From  their  bright  winter-woven  fetters  free ; 
Along  the  shore  their  sparkling  billows  sweep, 
And  greet  thee  with  a  gush  of  melody. 
The  air  is  full  of  music,  wild  and  sweet, 
Made  by  the  joyous  waving  of  the  trees, 
Wherein  a  thousand  winged  minstrels  meet, 
And  by  the  work-song  of  the  early  bees, 
In  the  white  blossoms  fondly  murmuring, 
And  founts,  that  in  the  blessed  sunshine  sing : 
Hail  to  thee !  maiden  with  the  bright  blue  eyes  ! 
And  showery  robe,  all  steeped  in  starry  dew ; 
Hail  to  thee !  as  thou  ridest  thro'  the  skies, 
Upon  thy  rainbow  car  of  various  hue. 
7 


74 


TO  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

How  passing  sad  !     Listen,  it  sings  again  ! 

Art  thou  a  spirit,  that  amongst  the  boughs, 
The  livelong  day  dost  chaunt  that  wondrous  strain, 

Making  wan  Dian  stoop  her  silver  brows 
Out  of  the  clouds  to  hear  thee  ?  who  shall  say, 
Thou  lone  one !  that  thy  melody  is  gay, 
Let  him  come  listen  now  to  that  one  note, 

That  thou  art  pouring  o'er  and  o'er  again 
Thro'  the  sweet  echoes  of  thy  mellow  throat, 

With  such  a  sobbing  sound  of  deep,  deep  pain. 
I  prithee  cease  thy  song  !  for  from  my  heart 
Thou  hast  made  memory's  bitter  waters  start, 

And  filled  my  weary  eyes  with  the  soul's  rain. 


75 


SONNET. 

LADY,  whom  my  beloved  loves  so  well ! 

When  on  his  clasping  arm  thy  head  reclineth, 
When  on  thy  lips  his  ardent  kisses  dwell, 

And  the  bright  flood  of  burning  light,  that  shineth 
In  his  dark  eyes,  is  poured  into  thine ; 

When  thou  shall  lie  enfolded  to  his  heart, 
In  all  the  trusting  helplessness  of  love ; 

If  in  such  joy  sorrow  can  find  a  part, 
Oh,  give  one  sigh  unto  a  doom  like  mine ! 
Which  I  would  have  thee  pity,  but  not  prove. 
One  cold,  calm,  careless,  wintry  look,  that  fell 

Haply  by  chance  on  me,  is  all  that  he 
E'er  gave  my  love ;  round  that,  my  wild  thoughts 
dwell 

In  one  eternal  pang  of  memory. 


76 


TO  . 

WHEN  the  dawn 
O'er  hill  and  dale 
Throws  her  bright  veil, 

Oh,  think  of  me ! 
When  the  rain 
With  starry  showers 
Fills  all  the  flowers, 

Oh,  think  of  me ! 
When  the  wind 
Sweeps  along, 
Loud  and  strong, 

Oh,  think  of  me  ! 
When  the  laugh 
With  silver  sound 
Goes  echoing  round, 

Oh,  think  of  me  ! 
When  the  night 
With  solemn  eyes 
Looks  from  the  skies, 

Oh,  think  of  me! 


TO .  77 

When  the  air 
Still  as  death 
Holds  its  breath, 

Oh,  think  of  me ! 
When  the  earth 
Sleeping  sound 
Swings  round  and  round, 

Oh,  think  of  me  ! 
When  thy  soul 
O'er  life's  dark  sea 
Looks  gloomily, 

Oh,  think  of  me  ! 


78 


WOMAN'S  LOVE. 

A  MAIDEN  meek,  with  solemn,  steadfast  eyes, 

Full  of  eternal  constancy  and  faith, 
And  smiling  lips,  thro'  whose  soft  portal  sighs 

Truth's  holy  voice,  with  ev'ry  balmy  breath, 
So  journeys  she  along  life's  crowded  way, 

Keeping  her  soul's  sweet  counsel  from  all  sight ; 
Nor  pomp,  nor  vanity,  lead  her  astray, 

Nor  aught  that  men  call  dazzling,  fair,  or  bright : 
For  pity,  sometimes,  doth  she  pause,  and  stay 

Those  whom  she  meeteth  mourning,  for  her  heart 

Knows  well  in  suffering  how  to  bear  its  part. 
Patiently  lives  she  thro'  each  dreary  day, 

Looking  with  little  hope  unto  the  morrow ; 

And  still  she  walketh  hand  in  hand  with  sorrow. 


79 


TO  MRS.  . 

I  NEVER  shall  forget  thee — 'tis  a  word 

Thou  oft  must  hear,  for  surely  there  be  none 

On  whom  thy  wondrous  eyes  have  ever  shone 
But  for  a  moment,  or  who  e'er  have  heard 
Thy  voice's  deep  impassioned  melody, 

Can  lose  the  memory  of  that  look  or  tone. 
But,  not  as  these,  do  I  say  unto  thee, 

I  never  shall  forget  thee  : — in  thine  eyes, 
Whose  light,  like  sunshine,  makes  the  world  rejoice, 

A  stream  of  sad  and  solemn  splendour  lies ; 
And  there  is  sorrow  in  thy  gentle  voice. 
Thou  art  not  like  the  scenes  in  which  I  found  thee, 
Thou  art  not  like  the  beings  that  surround  thee ; 

To  me,  thou  art  a  dream  of  hope  and  fear ; 
Yet  why  of  fear  ? — oh  sure  !  the  Power  that  lent 
Such  gifts,  to  make  thee  fair,  and  excellent ; 
Still  watches  one  whom  it  has  deigned  to  bless 
With  such  a  dower  of  grace  and  loveliness ; 

Over  the  dangerous  waves  'twill  surely  steer 


80  TO  MRS.  . 

The  richly  freighted  bark,  thro'  storm  and  blast, 

And  guide  it  safely  to  the  port  at  last. 

Such  is  my  prayer ;  'tis  warm  as  ever  fell 

From  off  my  lips :  accept  it,  and  farewell ! 

And  though  in  this  strange  world  where  first  I  met 

thee, 
We  meet  no  more — I  never  shall  forget  thee. 


81 


AN  ENTREATY. 

ONCE  more,  once  more  into  the  sunny  fields 

Oh,  let  me  stray ! 
And  drink  the  joy  that  young  existence  yields 

In  a  bright,  cloudless  day. 

Once  more  let  me  behold  the  summer  sky, 

With  its  blue  eyes, 
And  join  the  wild  wind's  voice  of  melody, 

As  far  and  free  it  flies. 

Once  more,  once  more,  oh  let  me  stand  and  hear 

The  gushing  spring, 
As  its  bright  drops  fall  starlike,  fast  and  clear, 

And  in  the  sunshine  sing. 

Once  more,  oh  let  me  list  the  soft  sweet  breeze 

At  evening  mourn : 
Let  me,  oh  let  me  say  farewell  to  these. 

And  to  my  task  I  gaily  will  return. 


82  AN  ENTREATY. 

Oh,  lovely  earth  !  oh,  blessed  smiling  sky  ! 

Oh,  music  of  the  wood,  the  wave,  the  wind  ! 
I  do  but  linger  till  my  ear  and  eye 

Have  traced  ye  on  the  tablets  of  my  mind — 

And  then,  fare  ye  well ! 
Bright  hill  and  bosky  dell, 
Clear  spring  and  haunted  well, 
Night-blowing  flowers  pale, 
Smooth  lawn  and  lonely  vale, 
Sleeping  lakes  and  sparkling  fountains, 
Shadowy  woods  and  sheltering  mountains, 
Flowery  land  and  sunny  sky, 
And  echo  sweet,  my  playmate  shy; 
Fare  ye  well ! — fare  ye  well ! 


LINES  FOR  MUSIC. 

LOUD  wind,  strong  wind,  where  art  thou  blowing? 
Into  the  air,  the  viewless  air, 
To  be  lost  there, 
There  am  I  blowing. 

Clear  wave,  swift  wave,  where  art  thou  flowing? 
Unto  the  sea,  the  boundless  sea, 
To  be  whelm'd  there, 
There  am  I  flowing. 

Young  life,  swift  life,  where  art  thou  going  ? 

Down  to  the  grave,  the  loathsome  grave, 
To  moulder  there, 
There  am  I  going. 


84 


TO 


WHEN  the  glad  sun  looks  smiling  from  the  sky, 
Upon  each  shadowy  glen,  and  woody  height, 

And  that  you  tread  those  well-known  paths  where  I 
Have  stray'd  with  you, — do  not  forget  me  quite. 

jr 

When  the   warm   hearth  throws  its   bright  glow 
around, 

On  many  a  smiling  cheek,  and  glance  of  light, 
And  the  gay  laugh  wakes  with  its  joyous  sound 

The  soul  of  mirth, — do  not  forget  me  quite. 

You  will  not  miss  me ;  for  with  you  remain 
Hearts  fond  and  warm,  and  spirits  young  and 
bright, 

'Tis  but  one  word — "  farewell ;"  and  all  again 
Will  seem  the  same, — yet  don't  forget  me  quite. 


85 


THE  PARTING. 

'TwAs  a  fit  hour  for  parting, 

For  athwart  the  leaden  sky 
The  heavy  clouds  came  gathering 

And  sailing  gloomily : 
The  earth  was  drunk  with  heaven's  tears, 

And  each  moaning  autumn  breeze 
Shook  the  burthen  of  its  weeping 

Off  the  overladen  trees. 
The  waterfall  rush'd  swollen  down, 

In  the  gloamin,  still  and  gray ; 
With  a  foam-wreath  on  the  angry  brow 

Of  each  wave  that  flashed  away. 
My  tears  were  mingling  with  the  rain, 

That  fell  so  cold  and  fast, 
And  my  spirit  felt  thy  low  deep  sigh 

Through  the  wild  and  roaring  blast. 
The  beauty  of  the  summer  woods 

Lay  rustling  round  our  feet, 
And  all  fair  things  had  pass'd  away — 

'Twas  an  hour  for  parting  meet. 
8 


86 


SONG. 

WHEPT  you  mournfully  rivet  your  tear-laden  eyes, 
That  have  seen  the  last  sunset  of  hope  pass  away, 

On  some  bright  orb  that  seems,  thro'  the  still,  sap- 
phire skies, 
In  beauty  and  splendour  to  roll  on  its  way : 

Oh,  remember  this  earth,  if  beheld  from  afar, 
Appears  wrapt  in  a  halo  as  soft,  and  as  bright, 

As  the  pure  silver  radiance  enshrining  yon  star, 
Where  your  spirit  is  eagerly  soaring  to-night. 

And  at  this  very  midnight,  perhaps,  some  poor 
heart, 

That  is  aching,  or  breaking,  in  that  distant  sphere; 
Gazes  down  on  this  dark  world,  and  longs  to  depart 

From  its  own  dismal  home,  to  a  happier  one  here. 


87 


TO  A  STAR. 

THOU  little  star,  that  in  the  purple  clouds 

Hang'st,  like  a  dew-drop,  in  a  violet  bed ; 
First  gem  of  evening,  glittering  on  the  shrouds, 

'Mid  whose  dark  folds  the  day  lies  pale  and  dead, 
As  thro'  my  tears  my  soul  looks  up  to  thee, 

Loathing  the  heavy  chains  that  bind  it  here, 
There  comes  a  fearful  thought  that  misery 

Perhaps  is  found,  even  in  thy  distant  sphere. 
Art  thou  a  world  of  sorrow  and  of  sin, 

The  heritage  of  death,  disease,  decay ; 
A  wilderness,  like  that  we  wander  in, 

Where  all  things  fairest,  soonest  pass  away  ? 
And  are  there  graves  in  thee,  thou  radiant  world, 

Round  which  life's  sweetest  buds  fall  withered, 
Where  hope's  bright  wings  in  the  dark  earth  lie 
furled, 

And  living  hearts  are  mouldering  with  the  dead  ? 
Perchance  they  do  not  die,  that  dwell  in  thee, 

Perchance  theirs  is  a  darker  doom  than  ours ; 
Unchanging  wo,  and  endless  misery, 

And  mourning  that  hath  neither  days  nor  hours. 


88  TO   A  STAR. 

Horrible  dream  ! — Oh  dark  and  dismal  path, 

Where  I  now  weeping  walk,  I  will  not  leave  thee. 

Earth  has  one  boon  for  all  her  children — death : 
Open  thy  arms,  oh  mother  !  and  receive  me ! 

Take  off  the  bitter  burthen  from  the  slave, 

Give  me  my  birth-right!  give — the  grave,   the 
grave ! 


89 


SONNET. 

THOU  poisonous  laurel  leaf,  that  in  the  soil 

Of  life,  which  I  am  doom'd  to  till  full  sore, 
Spring's!  like  a  noisome  weed  !  I  do  not  toil 

For  thee,  and  yet  thou  still  com'st  darkening  o'er 

My  plot  of  earth  with  thy  unwelcome  shade. 
Thou  nightshade  of  the  soul,  beneath  whose  boughs 

All  fair  and  gentle  buds  hang  withering, 
Why  hast  thou  wreath'd  thyself  around  my  brows, 

Casting  from  thence  the  blossoms  of  my  spring, 

Breathing  on  youth's  sweet  roses  till  they  fade  1 
Alas !  thou  art  an  evil  weed  of  wo, 

Watered  with  tears  and  watch'd  with  sleepless 
care, 

Seldom  doth  envy  thy  green  glories  spare ; 
And  yet  men  covet  thee — ah,  wherefore  do  they  so! 

8* 


90 


SONNET. 

I  HEAR  a  voice  low  in  the  sunset  woods ; 
Listen,  it  says  :  "  Decay,  decay,  decay ." 

I  hear  it  in  the  murmuring  of  the  floods, 
And  the  wind  sighs  it  as  it  flies  away. 
Autumn  is  come ;  seest  thou  not  in  the  skies, 
The  stormy  light  of  his  fierce,  lurid  eyes  1 
Autumn  is  come ;  his  brazen  feet  have  trod, 
Withering  and  scorching,  o'er  the  mossy  sod. 
The  fainting  year  sees  her  fresh  flowery  wreath 
Shrivel  in  his  hot  grasp;  his  burning  breath, 
Dries  the  sweet  water-springs  that  in  the  shade 
Wandering  along,  delicious  music  made. 
A  flood  of  glory  hangs  upon  the  world, 
Summer's  bright  wings  shining  ere  they  are  furl'd. 


91 


TO 


Is  it  a  sin,  to  wish  that  I  may  meet  thee 
In  that  dim  world  whither  our  spirits  stray, 
When  sleep  and  darkness  follow  life  and  day  1 

Is  it  a  sin,  that  there  my  voice  should  greet  thee 
With  all  that  love  that  I  must  die  concealing  ? 
Will  my  tear-laden  eyes  sin  in  revealing 

The  agony  that  preys  upon  my  soul  ? 

Is't  not  enough  thro'  the  long,  loathsome  day, 

To  hold  each  look,  and  word,  in  stern  control  ? 
May  I  not  wish  the  staring  sunlight  gone, 
Day  and  its  thousand  torturing  moments  done, 

And  prying  sights  and  sounds  of  men  away  ? 
Oh,  still  and  silent  Night !  when  all  things  sleep, 
Lock'd  in  thy  swarthy  breast  my  secret  keep : 
Come,  with  thy  vision'd  hopes  and  blessings  now ! 
I  dream  the  only  happiness  I  know. 


92 


SONNET. 

Written  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  after  a  ball. 

OH,  modest  maiden  morn  !  why  dost  thou  blush, 

Who  thus  betimes  art  walking  in  the  sky  ? 
'Tis  I,  whose  cheek  bears  pleasure's  sleepless  flush, 

Who  shame  to  meet  thy  gray,  cloud-lidded  eye, 
Shadowy,  yet  clear :  from  the  bright  eastern  door, 

Where  the  sun's  shafts  lie  bound  with  throngs  of 

fire, 
Along  the  heaven's  amber  paved  floor, 

The  glad  hours  move,  hymning  their  early  choir. 
O,  fair  and  fragrant  morn !  upon  my  brow 

Press  thy  fresh  lips,  shake  from  thy  dropping 

hair 
Cold  show'rs  of  balmy  dew  on  me,  and  ere 

Day's  chariot-wheels  upon  th'  horizon  glow, 
Wrap  me  within  thy  sober  cloak  of  gray, 
And  bear  me  to  thy  twilight  bow'rs  away. 


93 


LINES, 

In  answer  to  a  question. 

I'LL  tell  thee  why  this  weary  world  meseemeth 
But  as  the  visions  light  of  one  who  dreameth, 
Which  pass  like  clouds,  leaving  no  trace  behind  ; 
Why  this  strange  life,  so  full  of  sin  and  folly, 
In  me  awakeneth  no  melancholy, 
Nor  leaveth  shade,  or  sadness,  on  my  mind. 
'Tis  not  that  with  an  undiscerning  eye 
I  see  the  pageant  wild  go  dancing  by, 
Mistaking  that  which  falsest  is,  for  true ; 
'Tis  not  that  pleasure  hath  entwined  me, 
'Tis  not  that  sorrow  hath  enshrined  me; 
I  bear  no  badge  of  roses  or  of  rue, 
But  in  the  inmost  chambers  of  my  soul 
There  is  another  world,  a  blessed  home, 
O'er  which  no  living  pow'r  holdeth  control, 
Anigh  to  which  ill  things  do  never  come. 
There  shineth  the  glad  sunlight  of  clear  thought, 
With  hope,  and  faith,  holding  communion  high, 
Over  a  fragrant  land  with  flow'rs  ywrought, 
Where  gush  the  living  springs  of  poesy, 


94  LINES. 

There  speak  the  voices  that  I  love  to  hear, 
There  smile  the  glances  that  I  love  to  see, 
There  live  the  forms  of  those  my  soul  holds  dear, 
For  ever,  in  that  secret  world,  with  me. 
They  who  have  walked  with  me  along  life's  way, 
And  sever'd  been  by  fortune's  adverse  tide, 
Who  ne'er  again,  thro*  time's  uncertain  day, 
In  weal  or  woe,  may  wander  by  my  side ; 
These  all  dwell  here:  nor  these,  whom  life  alone 
Divideth  from  me,  but  the  dead,  the  dead ; 
Those  weary  ones  who  to  their  rest  are  gone, 
Whose  footprints  from  the  earth  have  vanished ; 
Here  dwell  they  all :  and  here,  within  this  world, 
Like  light  within  a  summer  sun  cloud  furl'd, 
My  spirit  dwells.     Therefore,  this  evil  life, 
With  all  its  gilded  snares,  and  fair  deceivings, 
Its  wealth,  its  want,  its  pleasures,  and  its  grievings, 
Nor  frights,  nor  frets  me,  by  its  idle  strife. 
O  thou  !  who  readest,  of  thy  courtesy, 
Whoe'er  thou  art,  I  wish  the  same  to  thee ! 


95 


A  FAREWELL. 

I  SHALL  come  no  more  to  the  Cedar  Hall, 
The  fairies'  palace,  beside  the  stream ; 

Where  the  yellow  sun  rays  at  morning  fall 
Thro'  their  tresses  dark,  with  a  mellow  gleam. 

I  shall  tread  no  more  the  thick  dewy  lawn, 
When  the  young  moon  hangs  on  the   brow  of 
night, 

Nor  see  the  morning,  at  early  dawn, 

Shake  the  fading  stars  from  her  robes  of  light. 

I  shall  fly  no  more  on  my  fiery  steed, 

O'er   the   springing    sward, — thro'   the   twilight 

wood; 
Nor  rein  my  courser,  and  check  my  speed, 

By  the  lonely  grange,  and  the  haunted  flood. 

At  fragrant  noon,  I  shall  lie  no  more 

'Neath  the  oak's  broad  shade,  in  the  leafy  dell : 

The  sun  is  set, — the  day  is  o'er, — 

The  summer  is  past ; — farewell ! — farewell ! 


06 


TO  A  PICTURE. 

OH,  serious  eyes !  how  is  it  that  the  light, 

The  burning  rays,  that  mine  pour  into  ye, 

Still  find  ye  cold,  and  dead,  and  dark,  as  night — 

Oh,  lifeless  eyes !  can  ye  not  answer  me  ? 

Oh,  lips !  whereon  mine  own  so  often  dwell, 

Hath  love's  warm,  fearful,  thrilling  touch,  no  spell 

To  waken  sense  in  ye  1 — oh,  misery ! — 

Oh,  breathless  lips !  can  ye  not  speak  to  me? 

Thou  soulless  mimicry  of  life !  my  tears 

Fall  scalding  over  thee ;  in  vain,  in  vain ; 

I  press  thee  to  my  heart,  whose  hopes,  and  fears, 

Are  all  thine  own ;  thou  dost  not  feel  the  strain. 

Oh,  thou  dull  image !  wilt  thou  not  reply 

To  my  fond  prayers,  and  wild  idolatry  ? 


97 


SONNET. 

THERE'S  not  a  fibre  in  my  trembling  frame 

That  does  not  vibrate  when  thy  step  draws  near, 

There's  not  a  pulse  that  throbs  not  when  I  hear 

Thy  voice,  thy  breathing,  nay,  thy  very  name. 

When  thou  art  with  me,  every  sense  seems  dull, 

And  all  I  am,  or  know,  or  feel,  is  thee ; 

My  soul  grows  faint,  my  veins  run  liquid  flame, 

And  my  bewildered  spirit  seems  to  swim 

In  eddying  whirls  of  passion,  dizzily. 

When  thou  art  gone,  there  creeps  into  my  heart 

A  cold  and  bitter  consciousness  of  pain : 

The  light,  the  warmth  of  life,  with  thee  depart, 

And  I  sit  dreaming  o'er  and  o'er  again 

Thy  greeting  clasp,  thy  parting  look,  and  tone; 

And  suddenly  I  wake — and  am  alone. 


98 


AN  INVITATION. 

COME  where  the  white  waves  dance  along  the  shore 
Of  some  lone  isle,  lost  in  the  unknown  seas ; 
Whose  golden  sands  by  mortal  foot  before 
Were  never  printed, — where  the  fragrant  breeze, 
That  never  swept  o'er  land  or  flood  that  man 
Could  call  his  own,  th'  unearthly  breeze  shall  fan 
Our  mingled  tresses  with  its  odorous  sighs ; 
Where  the  eternal  heaven's  blue,  sunny  eyes 
Did  ne'er  look  down  on  human  shapes  of  earth, 
Or  aught  of  mortal  mould  and  death-doom'd  birth : 
Come  there  with  me ;  and  when  we  are  alone 
In  that  enchanted  desert,  where  the  tone 
Of  earthly  voice,  or  language,  yet  did  ne'er 
With  its  strange  music  startle  the  still  air, 
When  clasp'd  in  thy  upholding  arms  I  stand, 
Upon  that  bright  world's  coral-cradled  strand, 
When  I  can  hide  my  face  upon  thy  breast, 
While  thy  heart  answers  mine  together  pressed, 
Then  fold  me  closer,  bend  thy  head  above  me, 
Listen — and  I  will  tell  thee  how  I  love  thee. 


99 


LINES  FOR  MUSIC. 

OH,  sunny  Love ! 
Crown'd  with  fresh  flowering  May, 

Breath  like  the  Indian  clove, 
Eyes  like  the  dawn  of  day  ; 

Oh,  sunny  Love ! 

Oh,  fatal  Love  ! 
Thy  robe  wreath  is  nightshade  all, 

With  gloomy  cypress  wove, 
Thy  kiss  is  bitter  gall, 

Oh,  fatal  Love! 


100 


SONG. 

NEVER,  oh  never  more !  shall  I  behold 

Thy  form  so  fair  : 
Or  loosen  from  its  braids  the  rippling  gold 

Of  thy  long  hair. 

Never,  oh  never  more  !  shall  I  be  blest 

By  thy  voice  low, 
Or  kiss,  while  thou  art  sleeping  on  my  breast, 

Thy  marble  brow. 

Never,  oh  never  more  !  shall  I  inhale 

Thy  fragrant  sighs, 
Or  gaze,  with  fainting  soul,  upon  the  veil 

Of  thy  bright  eyes. 


101 


LINES  ON  A  SLEEPING  CHILD. 

OH  child  !  who  to  this  evil  world  art  come, 

Led  by  the  unseen  hand  of  Him  who  guards  thee, 

Welcome  unto  this  dungeon-house,  thy  home  ! 
Welcome  to  all  the  wo  this  life  awards  thee  I 

Upon  thy  forehead  yet  the  badge  of  sin 

Hath  worn  no  trace ;  thou  look'st  as  tho'  from 
heav'n, 

But  pain,  and  guilt,  and  misery  lie  within ; 
Poor  exile  !  from  thy  happy  birth-land  driv'n. 

Thine  eyes  are  sealed  by  the  soft  hand  of  sleep, 
And  like  unruffled  waves  thy  slumber  seems; 

The  time's  at  hand  when  thou  must  wake  to  weep, 
Or  sleeping,  walk  a  restless  world  of  dreams. 

How  oft,  as  day  by  day  life's  burthen  lies 
Heavier  and  darker  on  thy  fainting  soul, 

Wilt  thou  towards  heaven  turn  thy  weary  eyes, 
And  long  in  bitterness  to  reach  the  goal. 
9* 


102  LINES  ON  A  SLEEPING  CHILD. 

How  oft  wilt  thou,  upon  Time's  flinty  road, 
Gaze  at  thy  far-off  early  days,  in  vain  ; 

Weeping,  how  oft  wilt  thou  cast  down  thy  load, 
And  curse  and  pray,  then  take  it  up  again. 

How  many  times  shall  the  fiend  Hope,  extend 
Her  poisonous  chalice  to  thy  thirsty  lips ! 

How  oft  shall  Love  its  withering  sunshine  lend, 
To  leave  thee  only  a  more  dark  eclipse ! 

How  oft  shall  Sorrow  strain  thee  in  her  grasp, — 
How  oft  shall  Sin  laugh  at  thine  overthrow — 

How  oft  shall  Doubt,  Despair,  and  Anguish  clasp 
Their  knotted  arms  around  thine  aching  brow  ! 

Oh,  living  soul,  hail  to  thy  narrow  cage ! 

Spirit  of  light,  hail  to  thy  gloomy  cave  ! 
Welcome  to  longing  youth,  to  loathing  age, 

Welcome,  immortal !  welcome  to  the  grave ! 


103 


A  RETROSPECT. 

LIFE  wanes,  and  the  bright  sunlight  of  our  youth 

Sets  o'er  the  mountain-tops,  where  once  Hope 

stood. 
Oh,  Innocence !  oh,  Trustfulness !  oh,  Truth  ! 

Where  are  ye  all,  white-handed  sisterhood, 
Who  with  me  on  my  way  did  walk  along, 
Singing  sweet  scraps  of  that  immortal  song 
That's  hymn'd  in  Heaven,  but  hath  no  echo  here? 
Are  ye  departing,  fellows  bright  and  clear, 

Of  the  young  spirit,  when  it  first  alights 
Upon  this  earth  of  darkness  and  dismay? 
Farewell !  fair  children  of  th'  eternal  day, 

Blossoms  of  that  far  land  where  fall  no  blights, 
Sweet  kindred  of  my  exiled  soul,  farewell ! 
Here  I  must  wander,  here  ye  may  not  dwell; 
Back  to  your  home  beyond  the  founts  of  light 
I  see  ye  fly,  and  I  am  wrapt  in  night. 


104 


AN  INVOCATION. 

SPIRIT,  bright  spirit !  from  thy  narrow  cell 
Answer  me !  answer  me !  oh,  let  me  hear 
Thy  voice,  and  know  that  thou  indeed  art  near! 
That  from  the  bonds   in  which   thou'rt  forced  to 

dwell 

Thou  hast  not  broken  free,  thou  art  not  fled, 
Thou  hast  not  pined  away*  thou  art  not  dead* 
Speak  to  me  through  thy  prison  bars  ;  my  life 
With  all  things  round,  is  one  eternal  strife, 
'Mid  whose  wild  din  I  pause  to  hear  thy  voice ; 
Speak  to  me,  look  on  me,  thou  born  of  light ! 
That  I  may  know  thou'rt  with  me,  and  rejoice. 
Shall  not  this  weary  warfare  pass  away  ? 
Shall  there  not  come  a  better,  brighter  day  ? 
Shall  not  thy  chain  and  mine  be  broken  quite? 
And  thou  to  heaven  spring, 
With  thine  immortal  wing, 
And  I,  still  following, 
With  steps  that  do  not  tire, 
Reach  my  desire, 
And  to  thy  worship  bring 
Some  worthy  offering. 


AN  INVOCATION.  105 

Oh  !  let  but  these  dark  days  be  once  gone  by, 

And  thou,  unwilling  captive,  that  dost  strain, 
With  tiptoe  longing,  vainly,  towards  the  sky, 

O'er  the  whole  kingdom  of  my  life  shalt  reign. 
But,  while  I'm  doomed  beneath  the  yoke  to  bow, 

Of  sordid  toiling  in  these  caverns  drear, 
Oh,  look  upon  me  sometimes  with  thy  brow 

Of  shining  brightness  ;  sometimes  let  me  hear 
Thy  blessed  voice,  singing  the  songs  of  Heaven, 
Whence  thou  and  I,  together,  have  been  driven; 
Give  me  assurance  that  thou  still  art  nigh, 
Lest  I  sink  down  beneath  my  load,  and  die. 


106 


A  LAMENT  FOR  THE  WISSAHICCON. 

THE  waterfall  is  calling  me 
With  its  merry  gleesome  flow, 

And  the  green  boughs  are  beckoning  me, 
To  where  the  wild  flowers  grow : 

I  may  not  go,  I  may  not  go, 

To  where  the  sunny  waters  flow, 

To  where  the  wild  wood  flowers  blow ; 

I  must  stay  here 

In  prison  drear, 

Oh,  heavy  life,  wear  on,  wear  on, 
Would  God  that  thou  wert  done ! 

The  busy  mill-wheel  round  and  round 
Goes  turning,  with  its  reckless  sound, 
And  o'er  the  dam  the  waters  flow 
Into  the  foaming  stream  below, 
And  deep  and  dark,  away  they  glide, 
To  meet  the  broad,  bright  river's  tide ; 


A  LAMENT  FOR  THE  WISSAHICCON.  107 

And  all  the  way 

They  murmuring  say : 

*'  Oh,  child  !  why  art  thou  far  away  ? 

Come  back  into  the  sun,  and  stray 

Upon  our  mossy  side !" 

I  may  not  go,  I  may  not  go, 

To  where  the  gold  green  waters  run, 
All  shining,  in  the  summer's  sun, 

And  leap  from  off  the  dam  below 

Into  a  whirl  of  boiling  snow, 

Laughing  and  shouting  as  they  go ; 
I  must  stay  here 
In  prison  drear, 

Oh,  heavy  life,  wear  on,  wear  on, 

Would  God  that  thou  wert  done ! 

The  soft  spring  wind  goes  passing  by, 

Into  the  forests  wide  and  cool ; 
The  clouds  go  trooping  thro'  the  sky, 
To  look  down  on  some  glassy  pool ; 
The  sunshine  makes  the  world  rejoice, 
And  all  of  them,  with  gentle  voice, 
Call  me  away, 
With  them  to  stay, 
The  blessed,  livelong  summer's  day. 

I  may  not  go,  I  may  not  go, 
Where  the  sweet  breathing  spring  winds  blow, 
Nor  where  the  silver  clouds  go  by, 
Across  the  holy,  deep  blue  sky, 


108  A  LAMENT  FOR  THE  WISSAHICCON. 

Nor  where  the  sunshine,  warm  and  bright, 
Comes  down  like  a  still  shower  of  light ; 

I  must  stay  here 

In  prison  drear, 

Oh,  heavy  life,  wear  on,  wear  on, 
Would  God  that  thou  wert  done ! 

Oh,  that  I  were  a  thing  with  wings ! 
A  bird,  that  in  a  May-hedge  sings ! 
A  lonely  heather  bell  that  swings 

Upon  some  wild  hill-side  ; 
Or  even  a  silly,  senseless  stone, 
With  dark,  green,  starry  moss  o'ergrown, 

Round  which  the  waters  glide. 


109 


TO  THE  WISSAHICCON. 

MY  feet  shall  tread  no  more  thy  mossy  side, 

When  once  they  turn  away,  thou  Pleasant  Water, 
Nor  ever  more,  reflected  in  thy  tide, 

Will  shine  the  eyes  of  the  White  Island's  daughter. 
But  often  in  my  dreams,  when  I  am  gone 

Beyond  the  sea  that  parts  thy  home  and  mine, 

Upon  thy  banks  the  evening  sun  will  shine, 
And  I  shall  hear  thy  low,  still  flowing  on. 
And  when  the  burthen  of  existence  lies 

Upon  my  soul,  darkly  and  heavily, 
I'll  clasp  my  hands  over  my  weary  eyes, 

Thou  Pleasant  Water,  and  thy  clear  waves  see. 
Bright  be  thy  course  for  ever  and  for  ever, 

Child  of  pure  mountain  springs,  and    mountain 

snow ; 
And  as  thou  wanderest  on  to  meet  the  river, 

Oh,  still  in  light  and  music  mayst  thou  flow ! 
I  never  shall  come  back  to  thee  again, 
When  once  my  sail  is  shadowed  on  the  main, 
Nor  ever  shall  I  hear  thy  laughing  voice 
As  on  their  rippling  way,  thy  waves  rejoice, 

10 


110  TO  THE  WISSAHICCON. 

Nor  ever  see  the  dark  green  cedar  throw 
Its  gloomy  shade  o'er  the  clear  depths  below, 
Never,  from  stony  rifts  of  granite  gray, 
Sparkling  like  diamond  rocks  in  the  sun's  ray, 
Shall  I  look  down  on  thee,  thou  pleasant  stream, 
Beneath  whose  crystal  folds  the  gold  sands  gleam ; 
Wherefore,  farewell !  but  whensoever  again 

The  wintry  spell  melts  from  the  earth  and  air ; 
And  the  young  Spring  comes  dancing  thro'  thy  glen, 

With  fragrant,  flowery  breath,  and  sunny  hair ; 
When  thro'  the  snow  the  scarlet  berries  gleam, 
Like  jewels  strewn  upon  thy  banks,  fair  stream, 
My  spirit  shall  thro'  many  a  summer's  day 
Return,  among  thy  peaceful  woods  to  stray. 


Ill 


FAITH. 


BETTER  trust  all,  and  be  deceived, 

And  weep  that  trust,  and  that  deceiving ; 

Than  doubt  one  heart,  that  if  believed, 
Had  blessed  one's  life  with  true  believing. 

Oh,  in  this  mocking  world,  too  fast 

The  doubting  fiend  overtakes  our  youth  ! 

Better  be  cheated  to  the  last, 

Than  lose  the  blessed  hope  of  truth. 


112 


AN  EVENING  SONG. 

GOOD  night,  love ! 

May  heaven's  brightest  stars  watch  over  thee ! 
Good  angels  spread  their  wings,  and  cover  thee 
And  thro*  the  night, 
So  dark  and  still, 
Spirits  of  light 

Charm  thee  from  ill ! 

My  heart  is  hovering  round  thy  dwelling-place, 
Good  night,  dear  love !   God  bless  thee  with  his 
grace ! 

Good  night,  love ! 

Soft  lullabies  the  night-wind  sing  to  thee ! 
And  on  its  wings  sweet  odours  bring  to  thee ! 
And  in  thy  dreaming 

May  all  things  dear, 
With  gentle  seeming, 
Come  smiling  near ! 
My  knees  are  bowed,  my  hands   are  clasped   in 

prayer — 
Good  night,  dear  love  !  God  keep  thee  in  his  care ! 


113 


THE  DEATH-SONG. 


MOTHER,  mother  !  my  heart  is  wild, 
Hold  me  upon  your  bosom  dear, 

Do  not  frown  on  your  own  poor  child, 
Death  is  darkly  drawing  near. 

Mother,  mother !  the  bitter  shame 

Eats  into  my  very  soul ; 
And  longing  love,  like  a  wrapping  flame, 

Burns  me  away  without  control. 

Mother,  mother !  upon  my  brow 

The  clammy  death-sweats  coldly  rise  ; 

How  dim  and  strange  your  features  grow 
Thro'  the  hot  mist  that  veils  my  eyes. 

Mother,  mother !  sing  me  the  song 
They  sing  on  sunny  August  eves, 

The  rustling  barley  fields  along, 
Binding  up  the  ripe,  red  sheaves. 
10* 


114  THE  DEATH  SONG. 

Mother  !  mother  !  I  do  not  hear 

Your  voice — but  his — oh,  guard  me  well ! 

His  breathing  makes  me  faint  with  fear, 
His  clasping  arms  are  round  me  still. 

Mother,  mother  !  unbind  my  vest, 
Upon  my  heart  lies  his  first  token : 

Now  lay  me  in  my  narrow  nest, 

Your  mithered  blossom,  crushed  and  broken. 


115 


WRITTEN  AFTER  LEAVING  WEST  POINT. 

THE  hours  are  past,  love, 
Oh,  fled  they  not  too  fast,  love ! 
Those  happy  hours,  when  down  the  mountain-side, 
We  saw  the  rosy  mists  of  morning  glide, 
And  hand  in  hand,  went  forth  upon  our  way, 
Full  of  young  life  and  hope,  to  meet  the  day. 

The  hours  are  past,  love, 
Oh,  fled  they  not  too  fast,  love! 
Those  sunny  hours,  when  from  the  midday  heat, 
We  sought  the  waterfall  with  loitering  feet, 
And  o'er  the  rocks  that  lock  the  gleaming  pool, 
Crept  down  into  its  depths,  so  dark  and  cool 

The  hours  are  past,  love, 
Oh,  fled  they  not  too  fast,  love  1 
Those  solemn  hours,  when  thro'  the  violet  sky, 
Alike  without  a  cloud,  without  a  ray, 
The  round  red  autumn  moon  came  glowingly, 
While  o'er  the  leaden  waves  our  boat  made  way. 


116  WRITTEN  AFTER  LEAVING  WEST  POINT. 

The  hours  are  past,  love, 
Oh,  fled  they  not  too  fast,  love ! 
Those  blessed  hours,  when  the  bright  day  was  past, 

And  in  the  world  we  seemed  to  wake  alone, 
When  heart  to  heart  beat  throbbingly,  and  fast, 
And  love  was  melting  our  two  souls  in  one. 


117 


« 'TIS  AN  OLD  TALE  AND  OFTEN  TOLD." 

ARR  they  indeed  the  bitterest  tears  we  shed 
Those  \ve  let  fall  over  the  silent  dead  ? 
Can  our  thoughts  image  forth  no  darker  doom, 
Than  that  which  wraps  us  in  the  peaceful  tomb  ? 
Whom  have  ye  laid  beneath  that  mossy  grave, 
Round  which  the  slender,  sunny  grass-blades  wave? 
Who  are  ye  calling  back  to  tread  again 
This  weary  walk  of  life  ?  towards  whom,  in  vain, 
Are  your  fond  eyes  and  yearning  hearts  upraised  ; 
The  young,  the  loved,  the  honoured,  and  the  praised  ? 
Come  hither ; — look  upon  the  faded  cheek 
Of  that  still  woman,  who  with  eyelids  meek 
Veils  her  most  mournful  eyes ; — upon  her  brow 
Sometimes  the  sensitive  blood  will  faintly  glow, 
When  reckless  hands  her  heart-wounds  roughly  tear, 
But  patience  oftener  sits  palely  there. 
Beauty  has  left  her — hope  and  joy  have  long 
Fled  from  her  heart,  yet  she  is  young,  is  young; 
Has  many  years,  as  human  tongues  would  tell, 
Upon  the  face  of  this  blank  earth  to  dwell. 


118 


Looks  she  not  sad  ?  'tis  but  a  tale  of  old, 
Told  o'er  and  o'er,  and  ever  to  be  told, 
The  hourly  story  of  our  every  day, 
Which  when  men  hear  they  sigh  and  turn  away; 
A  tale  too  trite  almost  to  find  an  ear, 
A  wo  too  common  to  deserve  a  tear. 
She  is  the  daughter  of  a  distant  land  ; — 
Her  kindred  are  far  off: — her  maiden  hand, 
Sought  for  by  many,  was  obtained  by  one 
Who  owned  a  different  birthland  from  her  own. 
But  what  reck'd  she  of  that  1  as  low  she  knelt 
Breathing  her  marriage  vows,  her  fond  heart  felt, 
"  For  thee,  I  give  up  country,  home,  and  friends  : 
Thy  love  for  each,  for  all,  shall  make  amends ;" 
And  was  she  loved  ? — perishing  by  her  side 
The  children  of  her  bosom  drooped  and  died  ; 
The  bitter  life  they  drew  from  her  cold  breast 
Flicker'd  and  fail'd ; — she  laid  them  down  to  rest : 
Two  pale  young  blossoms  in  their  early  sleep 
And  weeping,  said,  "  They  have  not  lived  to  weep." 
And  weeps  she  yet  ?  no,  to  her  weary  eyes, 
The  bliss  of  tears,  her  frozen  heart  denies ; 
Complaint,  or  sigh,  breathes  not  upon  her  lips, 
Her  life  is  one  dark,  fatal,  deep  eclipse. 
Lead  her  to  the  green  grave  where  ye  have  laid 
The  creature  that  ye  mourn ; — let  it  be  said : 
"  Here  love,  and  youth,  and  beauty,  are  at  rest  1" 
She  only  sadly  murmurs,  "  Blest ! — most  blest !" 
And  turns  from  gazing,  lest  her  misery 
Should  make  her  sin,  and  pray  to  heav'n  to  die. 


119 


FRAGMENT, 

From  an  epistle  written  when  the  thermometer  stood  at  98°  in 
the  shade. 


OH  !  for  the  temperate  airs  that  blow 

Upon  that  darling  of  the  sea, 
Where  neither  sunshine,  rain,  nor  snow, 

For  three  days  hold  supremacy ; 
But  ever-varying  sties  contend 
The  blessings  of  all  climes  to  lend, 
To  make  that  tiny,  wave-rocked  isle, 
In  never-fading  beauty  smile. 
England,  oh  England !  for  the  breeze 
That  slowly  stirs  thy  forest  trees ! 
Thy  ferny  brooks,  thy  mossy  fountains, 
Thy  beechen  woods,  thy  heathery  mountains, 
Thy  lawny  uplands,  where  the  shadow 

Of  many  a  giant  oak  is  sleeping; 
The  tangled  copse,  the  sunny  meadow, 

Thro*  which  the  summer  rills  run  weeping. 
Oh,  land  of  flowers!  while  sinking  here 

Beneath  the  dog-star  of  the  West, 
The  music  of  the  waves  I  hear 

That  cradle  thee  upon  their  breast. 


120  FRAGMENT. 

Fresh  o'er  thy  rippling  corn-fields  fly 

The  wild  wing'd  breezes  of  the  sea, 
While  from  thy  smiling,  summer  sky, 

The  ripening  sun  looks  tenderly. 
And  thou — to  whom  thro'  all  this  heat 

My  parboil'd  thoughts  still  fondly  turn, 
Oh !  in  what  "  shady  blest  retreat" 

Art  thou  ensconc'd,  while  here  I  burn? 
Across  the  lawn,  in  the  deep  glade, 
Where  hand  in  hand  we  oft  have  stray'd, 
Or  commun'd  sweetly,  side  by  side, 
Hear'st  thou  the  chiming  ocean  tide, 
As  gently  on  the  pebbly  beach 

It  fays  its  head,  then  ebbs  away, 
Or  round  the  rocks,  with  nearer  reach, 

Throws  up  a  cloud  of  silvery  spray? 
Or  to  the  firry  woods,  that  shed 

Their  spicy  odours  to  the  sun, 
Goest  thou  with  meditative  tread, 

Thinking  of  all  things  that  are  done 
Beneath  the  sky? — a  great,  big  thought, 

Of  which  I  know  you're  very  fond. 
For  me,  my  mind  is  solely  wrought 

To  this  one  wish : — O !  in  a  pond 
Would  I  were  over  head  and  ears ! 

(Of  a  cold  ducking  I've  no  fears) 
Or  any  where,  where  I  am  not ; 

For,  bless  the  heat !  it  is  too  hot ! 


121 


IMPROMPTU. 

You  say  you're  glad  I  write — oh,  say  not  so ! 

My  fount  of  song,  dear  friend,  's  a  bitter  well; 
And  when  the  numbers  freely  from  it  flow, 

'Tis  that  my  heart,  and  eyes,  o'erflow  as  well. 

Castalia,  fam'd  of  yore, — the  spring  divine, 
Apollo's  smile  upon  its  current  wears : 

Moore,  and  Anacreon,  found  its  waves  were  wine, 
To  me,  it  flows,  a  sullen  stream  of  tears. 


11 


122 


AN  APOLOGY. 

BLAME  not  my  tears,  love,  to  you  has  been  given 

The  brightest,  best  gift,  God  to  mortals  allows ; 
The  sunlight  of  hope   on  your  heart  shines   from 

Heaven, 

And  shines  from  your  heart,  on  this  life  and  its 
woes. 

Blame  not  my  tears,  love,  on  you  her  best  treasure 
Kind  nature  has  lavished,  oh,  long  be  it  yours ! 

For  how  barren  soe'er  be  the  path  you  now  measure, 
The  future   still   woos   you   with   hands  full  of 
flowers. 

Oh,  ne'er  be  that  gift,  love,  withdrawn  from  thy 

keeping ! 

The  jewel  of  life,  its  strong  spirit,  its  wings  ; 
If  thou  ever  must   weep,  may  it  shine  thro'  thy 

weeping, 
As  the  sun  his  warm  rays  thro*  a  spring  show'r 

flings. 


AN  APOLOGY.  123 

But  blame  not  my  tears,  love,  to  me  'twas  denied, 
And  when  Fate  to  my  lips  gave  this  life's  mingled 

cup, 
She  had  filled  to  the  brim,  from  the  dark  bitter 

tide, 
And  forgotten  to  pour  in  the  only  sweet  drop. 


124 


WRITTEN  AFTER  SPENDING  A  DAY  AT 
WEST  POINT. 

WERE  they  but  dreams  ?   Upon  the  darkening  world 
Evening  comes  down,  the  wings  of  fire  are  furl'd, 
On  which  the  day  soar'd  to  the  sunny  west : 
The  moon  sits  calmly,  like  a  soul  at  rest, 
Looking  upon  the  never-resting  earth ; 
All  things  in  heaven  wait  on  the  solemn  birth 
Of  night,  but  where  has  fled  the  happy  dream 
That  at  this  hour,  last  night,  our  life  did  seem  ? 
Where  are  the  mountains  with  their  tangled  hair, 
The  leafy  hollow,  and  the  rocky  stair  ? 
Where  are  the  shadows  of  the  solemn  hills, 
And  the  fresh  music  of  the  summer  rills  ? 
Where  are  the  wood-paths,  winding,  long  and  steep, 
And  the  great,  glorious  river,  broad  and  deep, 
And  the  thick  copses,  where  soft  breezes  meet, 
And  the  wild  torrent's  snowy,  leaping  feet, 
The  rustling,  rocking  boughs,  the  running  streams, — 
Where  are  they  all?   gone,  gone!  were  they  but 
dreams  ? 


A  DAY  AT  WEST  POINT.  125 

And  where,  oh  where  are  the  light  footsteps  gone, 

That  from  the  mountain-side  came  dancing  down? 

The  voices  full  of  mirth,  the  loving  eyes, 

The  happy  hearts,  the  human  paradise, 

The  youth,  the  love,  the  life  that  revelled  here, — 

Are  they  too  gone  1 — Upon  Time's  shadowy  bier, 

The  pale,  cold  hours  of  joys  now  past,  are  laid, 

Perhaps,  not  soon  from  memory's  gaze  to  fade, 

But  never  to  be  reckoned  o'er  again, 

In  all  life's  future  store  of  bliss  and  pain. 

From  the  bright  eyes  the  sunshine  may  depart, 

Youth  flies — love  dies — and  from  the  joyous  heart 

Hope's  gushing  fountain  ebbs  too  soon  away, 

Nor  spares  one  drop  for  that  disastrous  day, 

When  from  the  barren  waste  of  after  life, 

The  weariness,  the  worldliness,  the  strife, 

The  soul  looks  o'er  the  desert  of  its  way 

To  the  green  gardens  of  its  early  day : 

The  paradise,  for  which  we  vainly  mourn, 

The  heaven,  to  which  our  ling'ring  eyes  still  turn, 

To  which  our  footsteps  never  shall  return. 


11* 


126 


SONG.  :; 

PASS  thy  hand  thro'  my  hair,  love ; 

One  little  year  ago, 
In  a  curtain  bright  and  rare,  love, 

It  fell  golden  o'er  my  brow. 
But  the  gold  has  pass'd  away,  love, 

And  the  drooping  curls  are  thin, 
And  cold  threads  of  wintry  gray,  love, 

Glitter  their  folds  within : 
How  should  this  be,  in  one  short  year  ? 
It  is  not  age — can  it  be  care  ? 

Fasten  thine  eyes  on  mine,  love ; 

One  little  year  ago, 
Midsummer's  sunny  shine,  love, 

Had  not  a  warmer  glow. 
But  the  light  is  there  no  more,  love, 

Save  in  melancholy  gleams, 
Like  wan  moonlight  wand'ring  o'er,  love, 

Dim  lands  in  troubled  dreams : 
How  should  this  be,  in  one  short  year  ? 
It  is  not  age — can  it  be  care  ? 


127 


Lay  thy  cheek  to  my  cheek,  love, 

One  little  year  ago 
It  was  ripe,  and  round,  and  sleek,  love, 

As  the  autumn  peaches  grow. 
But  the  rosy  hue  has  fled,  love, 

Save  a  flush  that  goes  and  comes, 
Like  a  flow'r  born  from  the  dead,  love, 

And  blooming  over  tombs  : 
How  should  this  be,  in  one  short  year  ? 
It  is  not  age—  can  it  be  care  ? 


128 


TO  MRS.  DULANEY. 

WHAT  was  thine  errand  here  ? 
Thy  beauty  was  more  exquisite  than  aught 

That  from  this  marred  earth 

Takes  its  imperfect  birth. 
It  was  a  radiant,  heavenly  beauty,  caught 

From  some  far  higher  sphere, 
And  tho'  an  angel  now,  thou  still  must  bear 
The  lovely  semblance  that  thou  here  didst  wear. 

What  was  thine  errand  here  ? 
Thy  gentle  thoughts,  and  holy,  humble  mind, 

With  earthly  creatures  coarse, 

Held  not  discourse, 
But  with  fine  spirits,  of  some  purer  kind, 

Dwelt  in  communion  dear ; 
And  sure  they  speak  to  thee  that  language  now, 
Which  thou  wert  wont  to  speak  to  us,  below. 


TO  MRS.  DULANBY.  129 

What  was  thine  errand  here  ? 
To  adorn  anguish,  and  ennoble  death, 

And  make  infirmity 

A  patient  victory, 
And  crown  life's  baseness  with  a  glorious  wreath, 

That  fades  not  on  thy  bier, 
But  fits,  immortal  soul !  thy  triumph  still, 
In  that  bright  world  where  thou  art  gone  to  dwell. 


IMPROMPTU, 

Written  among  the  ruins  of  the  Sonnenberg. 

THOU  who  within  thyself  dost  not  behold 

Ruins  as  great  as  these,  tho'  not  as  old, 

Can'st  scarce  through  life  have  travelled   many  a 

year, 

Or  lack'st  the  spirit  of  a  pilgrim  here. 
Youth  hath  its  walls  of  strength,  its  tow'rs  of  pride, 
Love,  its  warm  hearth-stones,  hope,  its  prospects 

wide, 

Life's  fortress  in  thee,  held  these  one,  and  all, 
And  they  have  fallen  to  ruin,  or  shall  fall. 


130 


LINES, 


Addressed  to  the  Young  Gentlemen  leaving  the  Academy  at  Lenox, 
Massachusetts. 


LIFE  is  before  ye — and  while  now  ye  stand 

Eager  to  spring  upon  the  promised  land, 

Fair  smiles  the  way,  where  yet  your  feet  have  trod 

But  few  light  steps,  upon  a  flowery  sod ; 

Round  ye  are  youth's  green  bow'rs,  and  to  your 

eyes 

Th'  horizon's  line  joins  earth  with  the  bright  skies ; 
Daring  and  triumph,  pleasure,  fame,  and  joy, 
Friendship  unwavering,  love  without  alloy, 
Brave  thoughts  of  noble  deeds,  and  glory  won, 
Like  angels,  beckon  ye  to  venture  on. 
And  if  o'er  the  bright  scene  some  shadows  rise, 
Far  off*  they  seem,  at  hand  the  sunshine  lies 
The  distant  clouds  which  of  ye  pause  to  fear  ? 
Shall  not  a  brightness  gild  them  when  more  near  ? 
Dismay  and  doubt  ye  know  not,  for  the  pow'r 
Of  youth  is  strong  within  ye  at  this  hour, 
And  the  great  mortal  conflict  seems  to  ye 
Not  so  much  strife  as  certain  victory — 
A  glory  ending  in  eternity. 


LINES.  131 

Life  is  before  ye — oh  !  if  ye  could  look 
Into  the  secrets  of  that  sealed  book, 
Strong  as  ye  are  in  youth,  and  hope,  and  faith, 
Ye  should  sink  down,  and  falter,  "  Give  us  death !" 
Could  the  dread  Sphinx's  lips  but  once  disclose, 
And  utter  but  a  whisper  of  the  woes 
Which  must  overtake  ye,  in  your  lifelong  doom, 
Well  might  ye  cry,  "  Our  cradle  be  our  tomb !" 
Could  ye  foresee  your  spirit's  broken  wings, 
Earth's  brightest  triumphs  what  despised  things, 
Friendship  how  feeble,  love  how  fierce  a  flame, 
Your  joy  half  sorrow,  half  your  glory  shame, 
Hollowness,  weariness,  and,  worst  of  all, 
Self-scorn  that  pities,  not  its  own  deep  fall, 
Fast  gathering  darkness,  and  fast  waning  light, 
Oh  could  ye  see  it  all,  ye  might,  ye  might 
Cower  in  the  dust,  unequal  to  the  strife, 
And  die,  but  in  beholding  what  is  life. 

Life  is  before  ye — from  the  fated  road 
Ye  cannot  turn  :  then  take  ye  up  your  load. 
Not  yours  to  tread,  or  leave  the  unknown  way, 
Ye  must  go  o'er  it,  meet  ye  what  ye  may. 
Gird  up  your  souls  within  ye  to  the  deed, 
Angels,  and  fellow-spirits,  bid  ye  speed  ! 
What  tho'  the  brightness  dim,  the  pleasure  fade, 
The  glory  wane, — oh  !  not  of  these  is  made 
The  awful  life  that  to  your  trust  is  given. 
Children  of  God  !  inheritors  of  Heaven  ! 
Mourn  not  the  perishing  of  each  fair  toy, 
Ye  were  ordained  to  do,  not  to  enjoy, 


132  LINES. 

To  suffer,  which  is  nobler  than  to  dare ; 
A  sacred  burthen  is  this  life  ye  bear, 
Look  on  it,  lift  it,  bear  it  solemnly, 
Stand  up  and  walk  beneath  it  steadfastly ; 
Fail  not  for  sorrow,  falter  not  for  sin, 
But  onward,  upward,  till  the  goal  ye  win ; 
God  guard  ye,  and  God  guide  ye  on  your  way, 
Young  pilgrftn  warriors  who  set  forth  to-day. 


133 


THE  PRAYER  OF  A  LONELY  HEART. 

I  AM  alone — oh  be  thou  near  to  me, 
Great  God  !  from  whom  the  meanest  are  not  far. 
Not  in  presumption  of  the  daring  spirit, 
Striving  to  find  the  secrets  of  itself, 
Make  I  my  weeping  prayer ;  in  the  deep  want 
Of  utter  loneliness,  my  God  !  I  seek  thee ; 
If  the  worm  may  creep  up  to  thy  fellowship, 
Or  dust,  instinct  with  yearning,  rise  towards  thee. 
I  have  no  fellow,  Father  !  of  my  kind  ; 
None  that  be  kindred,  none  companion  to  me, 
And  the  vast  love,  and  harmony,  and  brotherhood, 
Of  the  dumb  creatures  thou  hast  made  below  me, 
Vexes  my  soul  with  its  own  bitter  lot. 
Around  me  grow  the  trees,  each  by  the  other ; 
Innumerable  leaves,  each  like  the  other, 
Whisper  and  breathe,  and  live  and  move  together. 
Around  me  spring  the  flow'rs  ;  each  rosy  cup 
Hath  sisters  leaning  their  fair  cheeks  against  it. 
The  birds  fly  all  above  me  ;  not  alone, 
But  coupled  in  free  fellowship,  or  mustering 
A  joyous  band,  sweeping  in.  companies 
12 


134  THE  PRAYER  OF  A  LONELY  HEART. 

The   wide   blue   fields   between   the    clouds; — the 

clouds 

Troop  in  society,  each  on  the  other 
Shedding,  like  sympathy,  reflected  light. 
The  waves,  a  multitude,  together  run 
To  the  great  breast  of  the  receiving  sea : 
Nothing  but  hath  its  kind,  its  company, 
Oh  God !  save  I  alone  ! — then,  let  me  come, 
Good  Father !  to  thy  feet,  when  even  as  now, 
Tears,  that  no  human  hand  is  near  to  wipe, 
O'erbrim  my  eyes,  oh  wipe  them,  thou,  my  Father ! 
When  in  my  heart  the  stores  of  its  affections, 
Piled  up  unus'd,  lock'd  fast,  are  like  to  burst 
The  fleshly  casket,  that  may  not  contain  them, 
Let  me  come  nigh  to  thee ; — accept  them  thou, 
Dear   Father  ! — Fount   of   Love  !    Compassionate 

God! 

When  in  my  spirit  burns  the  fire,  the  pow'r, 
That  have  made  men  utter  the  words  of  angels, 
And  none  are  near  to  bid  me  speak  and  live: 
Hearken,  oh  Father  !  maker  of  my  spirit ! 
God  of  my  soul,  to  thee  I  will  outpour 
The  hymns  resounding  thro'  my  troubled  mind, 
The  sighs  and  sorrows  of  my  lonely  heart, 
The  tears,  and  weeping,  of  my  weary  eyes : 
Be  thou  my  fellow,  glorious,  gracious  God ! 
And  fit  me  for  such  fellowship  with  thee! 


135 


ABSENCE. 


WHAT  shall  I  do  with  all  the  days  and  hours 
That  must  be  counted  ere  I  see  thy  face  1 

How  shall  I  charm  the  interval  thai  low'rs 

Between  this  time  and  that  sweet  time  of  grace? 

Shall  I  in  slumber  steep  each  weary  sense, 
Weary  with  longing  1 — shall  I  flee  away 

Into  past  days,  and  with  some  fond  pretence 
Cheat  myself  to  forget  the  present  day  ? 

Shall  love  for  thee  lay  on  my  soul  the  sin 
Of  casting  from  me  God's  great  gift  of  time ; 

Shall  I  these  mists  of  memory  lock'd  within, 
Leave,  and  forget,  life's  purposes  sublime  1 

Oh !  how,  or  by  what  means,  may  I  contrive 
To  bring  the  hour  that  brings  thee  back  more  near? 

How  may  I  teach  my  drooping  hope  to  live 
Until  that  blessed  time,  and  thou  art  here  1 


136  ABSENCE. 

I'll  tell  thee :  for  thy  sake,  I  will  lay  hold 
Of  all  good  aims,  and  consecrate  to  thee, 

In  worthy  deeds,  each  moment  that  is  told 
While  thou,  beloved  one  !  art  far  from  me. 

For  thee,  I  will  arouse  my  thoughts  to  try 

All  heavenward  flights,  all  high  and  holy  strains ; 

For  thy  dear  sake  I  will  walk  patiently 

Thro*  these  long  hours,  nor  call  their  minutes 
pains. 

I  will  this  dreary  blank  of  absence  make 
A  noble  task  time,  and  will  therein  strive 

To  follow  excellence,  and  to  overtake 

More  good  than  I  have  won,  since  yet  I  live. 

So  may  this  doomed  time  build  up  in  me 

A  thousand  graces  which  shall  thus  be  thine ; 

So  may  my  love  and  longing  hallowed  be, 
And  thy  dear  thought  an  influence  divine. 


137 


RETURN. 

WHEN  the  bright  sun  back  on  his  yearly  road 
Comes  towards  us,  his  great  glory  seems  to  me, 

As  from  the  sky  he  pours  it  all  abroad, 
A  golden  herald,  my  beloved,  of  thee. 

When  from  the  south  the  gentle  winds  do  blow, 
Calling  the  flow'rs  that  sleep  beneath  the  earth, 

It  sounds  like  sweetest  music,  that  doth  go 
Before  thy  coming,  full  of  love  and  mirth. 

When  one  by  one  the  violets  appear, 
Opening  their  purple  vests  so  modestly, 

To  greet  the  virgin  daughter  of  the  year, 
Each  seems  a  fragrant  prophecy  of  thee. 

For  with  the  spring  thou  shalt  return  again  ; 

Therefore  the  wind,  the  flow'r,  and  clear  sunshine, 
A  double  worship  from  my  heart  obtain, 

A  love  and  welcome  not  their  own,  but  thine. 


12* 


138 


LINES, 

Written  in  London. 

STRUGGLE  not  with  thy  life ! — the  heavy  doom 
Resist  not,  it  will  bow  thee  like  a  slave : 

Strive  not!  thou  shalt  not  conquer;  to  thy  tomb 
Thou  shalt  go  crush'd,  and  ground,  tho'  ne'er  so 
brave. 

Complain  not  of  thy  life ! — for  what  art  thou 

More  than  thy  fellows,  that  thou  should'st   not 
weep? 

Brave  thoughts  still  lodge  beneath  a  furrow'd  brow, 
And  the  way-wearied  have  the  sweetest  sleep. 

Marvel  not  at  thy  life ! — patience  shall  see 
The  perfect  work  of  wisdom  to  her  giv'n ; 

Hold  fast  thy  soul  thro'  this  high  mystery, 
And  it  shall  lead  thee  to  the  gates  of  heaven. 


139 


TO 


THE  fountain  of  my  life,  which  flow'd  so  free, 
The  plenteous  waves,  which    brimming    gush'd 

along, 

Bright,  deep,  and  swift,  with  a  perpetual  song, 
Doubtless  have  long  since  seemed  dried  up  to  thee : 
How  should  they  not7?  from  the  shrunk,  narrow  bed, 
Where  once  that  glory  flowed,  have  ebb'd  away 
Light,  life,  and  motion,  and  along  its  way 
The  dull  stream  slowly  creeps  a  shallow  thread, — 
Yet,  at  the  hidden  source,  if  hands  unblest 

Disturb  the  wells  whence  that  sad  stream  takes 

birth, 

The  swollen  waters  once  again  gush  forth, 
Dark,  bitter  floods,  rolling  in  wild  unrest. 


140 


TO 


WHAT  recks  the  sun,  how  weep  the  heavy  flow'rs 
All  the  sad  night,  when  he  is  far  away? 

What  recks  he,  how  they  mourn,  thro'  those  dark 

hours, 
Till  back  again  he  leads  the  smiling  day  1 

As  lifts  each  watery  bloom  its  tearful  eye, 
And  blesses  from  its  lowly  seat,  the  God, 

In  his  great  glory  he  goes  thro'  the  sky, 
And  recks  not  of  the  blessing  from  the  sod. 

And  what  is  it  to  thee,  oh,  thou,  my  fate ! 

That  all  my  hope,  and  joy,  remains  with  thee  ? 
That  thy  departing,  leaves  me  desolate, 

That  thy  returning,  brings  back  life  to  me  ? 

I  blame  not  thee,  for  all  the  strife,  and  woe, 
That  for  thy  sake  daily  disturbs  my  life, 

I  blame  not  thee,  that  heaven  has  made  me  so, 
That  all  the  love  I  can,  is  wo,  and  strife. 


TO  .  141 

I  blame  not  thee,  that  I  may  ne'er  impart 
The  tempest,  and  the  death,  and  the  despair, 

That  words,  and  looks,  of  thine  make  in  my  heart, 
And  turn  by  turn,  riot  and  stagnate  there. 

Oh !  I  have  found  my  sin's  sharp  scourge  in  thee, 
For  loving  thee,  as  one  should  love  but  heaven ; 

Therefore,  oh,  thou  beloved  !  T  blame  not  thee, 
But  by  my  anguish  hope  to  be  forgiven. 


EPISTLE   FROM   THE    RHINE 

To  Y ,  with  a  bowl  of  Bohemian  glass. 

FROM  rocky  hills,  where  climbs  the  vine; 
Where  on  his  waves  the  wandering  Rhine 
Sees  imaged  ruins,  towns  and  tow'rs, 
Bare  mountain  scalps,  green  forest  bow'rs, 
From  that  broad  land  of  poetry, 
Wild  legend,  noble  history, 
This  token  many  a  day  bore  I, 
To  lay  it  at  your  feet,  dear  Y . 

Little  the  stupid  bowl  will  tell 

Of  all  that  on  its  way  befell, 

Since  from  old  Frankfort's  free  domain, 

Where  smiling  vineyards  skirt  the  main, 

It  took  its  way ;  what  sunsets  red 

Their  splendours  o'er  the  mountains  shed, 

How  the  blue  Taunus'  distant  height 

Like  hills  of  fire  gave  back  the  light, 

And  how,  on  river,  rock,  and  sky, 

The  sun  declined  so  tenderly, 


EPISTLE  FROM  THE  RHINE.  143 

That  o'er  the  scene  white  moonlight  fell, 

Ere  we  had  bid  the  day  farewell. 

From  Maintz,  where  many  a  warrior  priest 

Was  wont  of  yore  to  fight  and  feast, 

The  broad  stream  bore  us  down  its  tide, 

Till  where  upon  its  steeper  side, 

Grim  Ehrenfels,  with  turrets  brown, 

On  Hatto's  wave- worn  tower  looks  down. 

Here  did  we  rest, — my  dearest  Y , 

This  bowl  could  all  as  well  as  I, 

Describe  that  scene,  when  in  the  deep, 

Still,  middle  night,  all  wrapp'd  in  sleep, 

The  hamlet  lone,  the  dark  blue  sky, 

The  eddying  river  sweeping  by, 

Lay  'neath  the  clear  unclouded  light 

Of  the  full  moon  :  broad,  brimming,  bright, 

The  glorious  flood  went  rolling  by 

Its  world  of  waves,  while  silently 

The  shaggy  hills,  on  either  side, 

Watch'd  like  huge  giants  by  the  tide. 

From  where  the  savage  bishop's  tower 

Obstructs  the  flood,  a  sullen  roar 

Broke  on  the  stillness  of  the  night, 

And  the  rough  waters,  yeasty  white, 

Foam'd  round  that  whirlpool  dread  and  deep, 

Where  still  thy  voice  is  heard  to  weep, 

Gisela  !  maiden  most  unblest, 

Thou  Jephtha's  daughter  of  the  West ! 

Who  shall  recall  the  shadowy  train 
That,  in  the  magic  light,  my  brain 


144  EPISTLE  FROM  THE  RHINE. 

Conjur'd  upon  the  glassy  wave, 
From  castle,  convent,  crag  and  cave  ? 
Down  swept  the  Lord  of  Allemain, 
Broad-brow'd,  deep-chested  Charlemagne, 
And  his  fair  child,  who  tottering  bore 
Her  lover  o'er  the  treacherous  floor 
Of  new-fallen  snow,  that  her  small  feet 
Alone  might  print  that  tell-tale  sheet, 
Nor  other  trace  show  the  stern  guard, 
The  nightly  path  of  Eginhard. 
What  waving  plumes  and  banners  past, 
With  trumpet  clang  and  bugle  blast, 
And  on  the  night-wind  faintly  borne, 
Strains  from  that  mighty  hunting-horn, 
Which  thro'  these  woods,  in  other  days, 
Startled  the  echoes  of  the  chase. 
On  troop'd  the  vision  ;  lord  and  dame, 
On  fiery  steed  and  palfrey  tame, 
Pilgrims,  with  palms  and  cockle  shells, 
And  motley  fools,  with  cap  and  bells, 
Princes  and  Counties  Palatine, 
Who  rul'd  and  revell'd  on  the  Rhine, 
Abbot  and  monk,  with  many  a  torch, 
Came  winding  from  each  convent  porch, 
And  holy  maids  from  Nonnenwerth, 
In  the  pale  moonlight  all  came  forth ; 
Thy  love,  Roland,  among  the  rest, 
Her  meek  hands  folded  on  her  breast, 
Her  sad  eyes  turn'd  to  heav'n,  where  thou 
Once  more  shalt  hear  love's  early  vow, 


EPISTLE  FROM  THE  RHINE.  145 

That  vow,  which  led  thee  home  again 
From  Roncevalles'  bloody  plain, 
That  vow,  that  ne'er  again  was  spoken 
Till  death  the  nun's  drear  oath  had  broken. 
Down  from  each  crumbling  castle  pour'd, 
Of  ruthless  robber-knights,  the  horde, 
Sweeping  with  clang  and  clamour  by, 
Like  storm-cloud  rattling  thro'  the  sky : 
Pageant  so  glorious  ne'er,  I  ween, 
On  lonely  river  bank  was  seen. 

So  pass'd  that  night :  but  with  the  day 

The  vision  melted  all  away  ; 

And  wrapp'd  in  sullen  mist  and  rain. 

The  river  bore  us  on  again, 

With  heavy  hearts  and  tearful  eyes, 

That  answer'd  well  the  weeping  skies 

Of  autumn,  which  now  hung  o'er  all 

The  scene  their  leaden,  dropping  pall, 

Beneath  whose  dark  gray  veils,  once  more 

We  hail'd  our  native  Albion's  shore, 

Our  pilgrimage  of  pleasure  o'er. 


13 


146 


LINES  FOR  MUSIC. 

GOOD  night !  from  music's  softest  spell 
Go  to  thy  dreams  :  and  in  thy  slumbers, 

Fairies,  with  magic  harp  and  shell, 

Sing  o'er  to  thec  thy  own  sweet  numbers. 

Good  night !  from  hope's  intense  desire 
Go  to  thy  dreams  :  and  may  to-morrow, 

Love,  with  the  sun  returning,  fire 

These  evening  mists  of  doubt  and  sorrow. 

Good  night !  from  hours  of  weary  waking 
I'll  to  my  dreams :  still  in  my  sleep 

To  feel  the  spirit's  restless  aching, 
And  ev'n  with  eyelids  closed,  to  weep. 


147 


SONNET. 

SAY  thou  not  sadly,  "  never,"  and  "  no  more," 

But  from  thy  lips  banish  those  falsest  words ; 
While  life  remains  that  which  was  thine  before 
Again  may  be  thine  ;  in  Time's  storehouse  lie 
Days,  hours,  and  moments,  that  have  unknown 

hoards 

Of  joy,  as  well  as  sorrow:  passing  by, 
Smiles,  come  with  tears ;  therefore  with  hopeful  eye 
Look  thou  on  dear  things,  though  they  turn  away, 
For  thou  and  they,  perchance,  some  future  day 
Shall  meet  again,  and  the  gone  bliss  return ; 
For  its  departure  then  make  thou  no  mourn, 
But  with  stout  heart  bid  what  thou  lov'st  farewell ; 
That  which  the  past  hath  given  the  future  gives  as 
well. 


148 


SONNET. 

THO'  thou  return  unto  the  former  things, 

Fields,  woods,  and  gardens,  where  thy  feet  have 

strayed 

In  other  days,  and  not  a  bough,  branch,  blade 
Of  tree,  or  meadow,  but  the  same  appears 
As  when  thou  lovedst  them  in  former  years, 
They  shall  not  seem  the  same ;  the  spirit  brings 
Change  from  the  inward,  tho'  the  outward  be 
E'en  as  it  was,  when  thou  didst  weep  to  see 
It  last,  and  spak'st  that  prophecy  of  pain, 
"  Farewell !  I  shall  not  look  on  ye  again  !" 
And  so  thou  never  didst — no,  tho'  e'en  now 
Thine  eyes  behold  all  they  so  loved  of  yore, 
The  Thou  that  did  behold  them  then,  no  more 
Lives  in  this  world,  it  is  another  Thou. 


149 


SONNET. 

LIKE  one  who  walketh  in  a  plenteous  land, 
By  flowing  waters,  under  shady  trees, 
Thro*  sunny  meadows,  where  the  summer  bees 
Feed  in  the  thyme  and  clover ;  on  each  hand 
Fair  gardens  lying,  where  of  fruit  and  flower 
The  bounteous  season  hath  poured  out  its  dower : 
Where  saffron  skies  roof  in  the  earth  with  light, 
And  birds  sing  thankfully  towards  Heaven,  while  he 
With  a  sad  heart  walks  through  this  jubilee, 
Beholding  how  beyond  this  happy  land, 
Stretches  a  thirsty  desert  of  gray  sand, 
Where  all  the  air  is  one  thick,  leaden  blight, 
Where  all  things  dwarf  and  dwindle, — so  walk  I, 
Thro'  my  rich,  present  life,  to  what  beyond  doth  lie. 


150 


SONNET. 

BLASPHEME  not  thou  thy  sacred  life,  nor  turn 
O'er  joys  that  God  hath  for  a  season  lent, 
Perchance  to  try  thy  spirit,  and  its  bent, 
Effeminate  soul  and  base  !  weakly  to  mourn. 
There  lies  no  desert  in  the  land  of  life, 
For  e'en  that  tract  that  barrenest  doth  seem, 
Laboured  of  thee  in  faith  and  hope,  shall  teem 
With  heavenly  harvests  and  rich  gatherings,  rife. 
Haply  no  more,  music  and  mirth  and  love, 
And  glorious  things  of  old  and  younger  art, 
Shall  of  thy  days  make  one  perpetual  feast, 
But  when  these  bright  companions  all  depart, 
Lay  thou  thy  head  upon  the  ample  breast 
Of  Hope,  and  thou  shalt  hear  the  angels  sing  above. 


151 


SONNET. 

BUT  to  be  still !  oh,  but  to  cease  awhile 

The  panting  breath  and  hurrying  steps  of  life, 
The  sights,  the  sounds,  the  struggle,  and  the  strife 
Of  hourly  being  ;  the  sharp  biting  file 
Of  action,  fretting  on  the  tightened  chain 
Of  rough  existence ;  all  that  is  not  pain, 
But  utter  weariness  ;  oh  !  to  be  free 
But  for  a  while  from  conscious  entity ! 
To  shut  the  banging  doors  and  windows  wide, 
Of  restless  sense,  and  let  the  soul  abide 
Darkly  and  stilly,  for  a  little  space, 
Gathering  its  strength  up  to  pursue  the  race; 
Oh,  heavens  !  to  rest  a  moment,  but  to  rest 
From  this  quick,  gasping  life,  were  to  be  blest ! 


SONNET. 

ART  thou  already  weary  of  the  way  ? 

Thou  who  hast  yet  but  half  the  way  gone  o'er : 
Get  up,  and  lift  thy  burthen :  lo,  before 
Thy  feet  the  road  goes  stretching  far  away. 
If  thou  already  faint,  who  hast  but  come 
Thro'  half  thy  pilgrimage,  with  fellows  gay, 
Love,  youth,  and  hope,  under  the  rosy  bloom 
And  temperate  airs,  of  early  breaking  day ; 
Look  yonder,  how  the  heavens  stoop  and  gloom, 
There  cease  the  trees  to  shade,  the  flowers  to  spring, 
And  th'  angels  leave  thee ;  what  wilt  thou  become 
Thro'  yon  drear  stretch  of  dismal  wandering, 
Lonely  and  dark?     I  shall  take  courage,  friend, 
For  comes  not  every  step  more  near  the  end  ? 


THE    END. 


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